


A Whole New World

by bexorz



Series: 9319 Shades of Gray [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, ask-spiderpool - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Analysis, Consent, Consent Issues, Dissociation, Eventual Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mercenary Peter, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Peter Has Issues, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Spanking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexorz/pseuds/bexorz
Summary: Peter died in the civil war. Wade traveled into the past to save Peter's uncle Ben, and save Peter's life in the process. Without that guilt hanging over him, Peter wouldn't put himself at so much risk. Wade didn't expect the entire world to be changed for the worse. Not to mention the fact that Wade Wilson is dead in the new timeline, and Spider-Man is a hardened mercenary.Spin-off of ask-spiderpool where Wade gets stuck in the altered timeline.





	1. Stuck

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. Thanks for reading this. @sciderman and I have plotted out most of the main points of this together, so it's a joint effort. We love these characters a lot and I hope it shows in how much suffering we are putting them through. :3c
> 
> For context, it's best if you've read [ask-spiderpool](http://ask-spiderpool.tumblr.com/tagged/this-is-heavy-doc/chrono), obviously. (This link goes to the entire time-travel arc that created this alternate timeline!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words this chapter: 4,155

"I'm sorry, it's not you, it's me."

"Uh..."

_Click._

Wade blinked, and smacked his hand against the red plate in the center of his harness. The device which was _supposed_ to transport him through time and space. _Click._

All right, this was… awkward.

“The fuck?” _Clickclickclick._

**Well then.**

_Bahaha!!_

“ _FUCK!!”_ Ripping the harness off his chest, Wade punched the button again. It remained stubbornly dark. It did not glow. It did not envelop him in magic-science-whatever to send him back to the past so he could fix what he did to fuck up the world.

_You’re such a moron. Haven’t you seen The Butterfly Effect?_

**We slept through it.**

Ignoring the boxes completely, Wade threw the device down onto the ground.

**Don’t break it!**

_It’s already broken._

Screaming, Wade jumped up and down instead, his boots thudding on the ground and sending gravel flying. “Fuck! Fuck damn _fucking_ cock bitch motherfucker _SHIT_ balls scrotum-sucking shitfuck ass-biscuit jizz mother fucking _FUCK!_ ”

_At least you can swear openly in this fic._

**I suppose that’s a bonus.**

Falling to his knees, he grabbed handfuls of grit and lifted his arms to the sky, letting the stuff fall through his fingers. “ _WHY?_ ” He sobbed, falling forward and pounding his fist against the ground. “Why why why _fuck_ why?”

“Wow, fanboy. What a performance. Maybe you’d rather I get you back to the psych ward you escaped from, then?”

Wade shot to his feet and snatched his mask back out of Spider-Man’s hands. He yanked it down over his burning face. “Excuse me,” he said. Turning away again, he continued swearing and stomping, kicking gravel and trash everywhere, making as big a ruckus as he could manage in the cramped alleyway.

“As amusing as this is, I do have somewhere to be. Let me know if you change your mind.”

By the time Wade realized that Spider-Man had spoken again, the webswinger had left. Most likely a long time earlier. “Where did he go?”

_Who knows? You were too busy having an apoplectic fit._

**Let’s not do that again.**

_Serves you right getting stuck here. You’ve fucked up everything else in your life, might as well fuck up the whole world._

Wade fell back against the nearby dumpster with a _clang_ , and slumped to the ground. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He dragged his fingers down his mask and tugged at the bottom, pulling it tight against his bald head.

_But you deserve it. So much for your big dramatic speech._

**We would have looked very cool, flashing out of here after that.**

_You’re too much a piece of shit to deserve a happy ending. So you get stuck here with Murderpete. Admit it, you still want to bone that fine ass._

**But that’s not the Peter we know. Our Peter would never be a murderer.**

_You murdered three people to save his life, what did you expect was going to happen?_

“I murdered one person. Uno. That thief was going to kill Uncle Ben.”

**Are you forgetting about Tony and Steve?**

Tony and Steve… Wade remembered Tony collapsing to the ground next to Peter’s broken, bloody body. Distraught, anguished, looking like he was going to cry. _Is this the part you say “it wasn’t worth it”?_ Click. Bang. A spray of blood. Screaming. A quick turn, a snap of the wrist. _Bang_.

So much for Iron Man and Captain Fucking America. So much for their damn war.

Wade dug his fingers into the litter under his ass, frowning. “They aren’t dead! I undid everything! I even saw Iron Man on a newspaper cover!” He tried to still the sudden quaking he felt.

 _Doesn’t matter. You still murdered them. You remember doing it. You got_ satisfaction _out of doing it. Face the facts, precious. You made your bed, you lie in it. A monster deserves to live in a monstrous world._

“This isn’t right. Peter shouldn’t _be_ like this.” Wade grumbled and threw an old beer bottle out of the alley. The action was followed by angry shouts from the street. His face twisted into a scowl beneath his mask and he wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his nose between them as he tucked himself further behind the dumpster.

**Moping isn’t going to solve this problem. Neither is getting caught assaulting pedestrians.**

_Of course the loser’s going to mope._

“QUIET!” Wade dug his fingers into his scalp, wishing his brain would shut up. Wishing he hadn’t tried to be a hero and save Peter’s uncle. Wishing he’d never met Peter in the first place, wishing he’d never gotten the idea that he could do some good in the world, wishing that he could fix it or that Weasel were here so he could kick his ass for making a faulty product or that Cable were here so he could kick his ass for being a cryptic motherfucker because _Spider-Man will die_ is way too vague and he should _know_ that Deadpool always fucks up everything he touches and he’ll never get it right and—

Several hours later, Deadpool was still in that alley, burrowed amongst the trash.

He felt like a piece of trash.

Trash was all he was good for. A filthy monster, tossed out with the garbage, not good for anything.

**We really need to do something more productive than this.**

_Shh, it’s hilarious._

**Do we really want to get caught by police and thrown in jail?**

_Hmm, good point. Going on that job with Murderpete would be a lot more fun. Get off your ass, Wade Waste-of-breath Wilson. Go find the spider._

Deadpool didn’t want to do shit. The more the boxes yelled at him, the more he wanted to do nothing more than lie there and die. It was merely unfortunate that dying wasn’t an option. If he could just off himself, there wouldn’t be any risk that he’d make any more catastrophic miscalculations.

**We could go eat until we’re tired and then sleep until we’re hungry.**

“With what money? They won’t take my bills.”

_Exactly! Go take the damn job!_

“No.”

As Deadpool was settling in to begin his life amongst his fellow filth, it began to rain. Because of course it was going to rain. At first it was only a light drizzle. He could ignore that, if he shut his eyes and tucked his chin. After a few minutes, however, the rain was heavier, more insistent. It hissed down onto the pavement, and pedestrians out on the sidewalks picked up the pace, their slapping steps hurried as they rushed towards their destinations.

Before long, Deadpool’s mask was soaked to a degree that made it difficult to breathe.

**That moist sucking sound is really gross.**

With a weary groan, reverberating from deep within his soul, Deadpool got to his feet, bracing a hand against the dumpster. His glove slipped in the grime—made slick by the rain—and his foot slipped on a narratively convenient banana peel. Crashing back to the ground, he clunked his head against the brick wall. The impact was jarring enough to make him see stars.

“ _Really?!_ ” Deadpool tilted his head up towards the clouds, grumbled, and swore to himself as he stood up more carefully this time. “Motherfucking ass trucking piss bucket…”

Grabbing his now-useless teleporting harness from the ground, Deadpool turned it over in his hands, frowning down at it. There was a chance he could get it fixed, _maybe_. The technology used to create it was beyond him, and he didn’t know if Weasel was alive in this apocalypse.

_Calling it an apocalypse is a bit much._

Even if Weas were alive, would he know how to fix the device?

First order of business was to find somewhere dry to spend the rest of the night. It was late enough that it must be long after midnight. The sewer wasn’t an option, if he wanted to get dry. There were plenty of trash bags in the alley that he could empty out to make an impromptu poncho if he wanted, to keep from getting more wet than he already was. He’d rather just be wet than covered in rot, though.

The subway, then. He could hop the turnstile and find a dark corner somewhere to huddle down.

**Do we have to turn into a criminal?**

_Yes. They don’t like our money here. That’s not our problem._

**Too late at night to try begging in Times Square.**

_Sure, just debase yourself further, when Murderpete has offered you a lucrative partnership. Goddamn idiots, both of you._

Deadpool ground his teeth, trying to ignore his asshole brain, and headed out into the city.

—————

Without any sunlight to alert him to the passage of time, Deadpool woke only when the noise of rush hour commuters got too loud for him to ignore. Voices and footsteps pounding past the nook he’d curled up in brought him out of his uncomfortable stupor, feeling half dead.

That sort of half-sleep was the best he’d been able to manage since he’d first left Peter months ago. Sharing a bed with Peter had become the only way he could get true rest, and he hated himself all the more for throwing it away. He’d not had a real night’s rest in all that time.

It sure didn’t look like he was going to be getting one anytime soon, either.

For the moment, he could set aside the little voice in his head that was telling him he’d never have that again.

Deadpool’s stomach was painfully empty. It complained at him with every step he took, grumbling and spasming. For all he cared, it could wait. He needed to find Weasel so that he could get the fuck back to the past and stop himself from stopping the thief that killed Uncle Ben.

_Blah blah blah. This hero shit is tedious._

**How exactly are we going to find Weasel?**

“Same way I found my tombstone. I’m gonna google that shit,” Deadpool said. “Once I find some wifi.”

Coming out into the underground foot traffic, he was dismayed to find himself suddenly under the scrutiny of dozens of pairs of eyes. People standing around waiting for their trains, most of them looking phenomenally ordinary, turned to stare at him.

“Come on, this is New York!” Deadpool shouted, feeling goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. There was something so _off_ about everyone in this fucked up world. “Aren’t you supposed to be jaded to weirdos in spandex?”

“Isn’t that Spider-Man?” a man murmured to the woman standing next to him.

“Who?” was her reply.

“‘ _Who’?!_ ” Deadpool shoved commuters aside as he barreled towards the woman through the crowd. He grabbed the front of her raincoat and stared right in her face. “ _Who is Spider-Man_?? The Amazing? The Spectacular? The Friendly Neighborhood? You don’t _know_?”

“Get your damn hands off me!” she said. From out of nowhere—it seemed to Deadpool—she pulled a small, bright orange canister, and nailed him right in the eyes with pepper spray.

Deadpool recoiled, screaming. He threw his hands to his face instinctively, far too late to do himself any good. His mask was not sufficient protection against such a direct hit.

**That is some really strong pepper spray.**

_Quite appropriate for this hell-hole._

**Uh… I think the cops are coming. We’d better get out of here.**

_Yeah, wouldn’t want to have to_ hurt _anyone._

Staggering half-blind towards the stairs, Deadpool shouldered his way through the throng of travelers heading down to the platform as he struggled for the exit. His eyes burned, the sensitive skin around them swelling, and tears ran down his cheeks. On the plus side, he had completely forgotten how hungry he was. Though, admittedly, it was a toss-up whether a gnawing belly or a face full of pepper spray caused greater suffering. The former he was more used to.

Above ground once more, he saw that it had only recently stopped raining. Puddles filled every dip in the concrete and asphalt, petrichor hung in the air, buildings were still dark with moisture, and most everyone was wearing a rain jacket or carrying an umbrella. He ran down the sidewalk, one arm out in front of him as he shouted, “Excuse me! Move it! Coming through! Merc with the mouth, _dangerous guy_ , look out!”

**Not exactly staying under the radar.**

_If you are absolutely insistent on doing things the hard, stupid way, might I suggest you try to disappear into Hell’s Kitchen for a while?_

**That sounds like a fair plan.**

“But Weasel…” Deadpool wheezed. He’d breathed in some of the spray, and his throat felt tight and sore. He was not going to take his mask off in public for anything, though, not even to get a fresh breath.

_Hey, dipshit, look. There’s a Starbucks. Go steal some wifi._

Turning the corner next to the coffee shop, to get off of the busier avenue onto the cross-street, Wade leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone. The battery indicator was a tiny red sliver in the corner of the screen. Did he have a charging cable with him? He didn’t think so. This was going to have to be quick.

**Do we even know enough about him to find him in this world?**

_Sure you do. It’s technically the same world._

Once he was connected to the wifi, Wade attempted a number of keyword combinations in his search, but all he came up with were animal control organizations.

_That’s because you’re looking up Weasel. Look up Jack Hammer, you fucking tool._

“I know that,” Wade hissed.

Just as he finished typing Weasel’s real name into the search field, his phone blinked at him and died. The urge to hurl it to the ground was almost overwhelming. He clenched it in both hands, hearing the plastic case begin to squeak in protest, but he was able to stop himself from crushing it and simply put it away instead.

There was a mercenary hangout across town that he was very familiar with. It had been in operation for decades. In a world like this, darker than the one he’d known, it should still be up and running. If there were any place where he could find someone who could get him any sort of information he needed, it’d be there. Without any bank account, valid id, or access to any otherwise large amounts of cash—

_You can always rob a jewelry store._

**You’re awful.**

—he might have to knock heads to get anything out of them. It wouldn’t be his first choice, but if he was going to fix his teleporter so that he could fix the whole world, then it’d be as if it had never happened!

**Big risk, buddy.**

_The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward._

**Haven’t we learned our lesson yet about karma?**

_Shut up. I’ll throw you in a box. I want to beat up some fuckers._

**I’m already in a box.**

_I’ll throw you in another box._

The noisy state of his brain was getting on Deadpool’s nerves. As he headed up 11th Avenue, the chatter of the boxes was devolving into an endless string of _your mama_ insults and early 2000’s memes. If only he could get them to stay quiet without doing something drastic. The last time that had happened, Peter had made him promise that he wouldn’t try it again.

Peter. He had to get back, he had to fix things, he had to save _his_ Peter. Not this murderous, jaded, cold-blooded—

_Absolutely hot piece of ass._

No.

_Just go find him again, do the job with him! Live life the way you want!_

“I’m not listening!” Deadpool said, slapping his hands over his ears. “La la la!”

“Be that way, jackass,” said a homeless man wrapped in rags as Deadpool passed him by.

“I wasn’t talking to you!”

As he was fighting the chaos in his head and trying to navigate this unfamiliar version of New York City, he almost missed a pawn shop. Jerking to a stop, he backed up a few paces, staring up at the sign. The front windows were protected by metal bars, and through them he could see all manner of merchandise. Jewelry, stereos, watches, cameras, phones.

Most importantly, there were also weapons. Knives, guns, swords, brass knuckles, everything but really heavy weaponry.

_Don’t you dare._

**That might be a good idea.**

_No! No no no, you are_ nothing _without your weapons!_

Clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders, Wade stepped up to the door and walked through. A bell jingled over the door, and he caught sight of at least two cameras pointed in his direction. There were likely more of them that he couldn’t see. A fair precaution in a place like this.

_What good will you be to this Peter without your weapons? What good is a Merc with a Mouth without the ability to do merc things?_

Wade muttered to himself, frowning.

A large, balding man with quite a bit of dark stubble on his face sat behind the counter, past a forest of display racks featuring all the merchandise one would expect based on what was in the window. Wade meandered his way over there, reaching out to touch half the things he passed just because he wanted to.

The clerk was sitting on a stool, leaning back and reading a newspaper. The cover story said something about Oscorp, but Wade couldn’t be bothered to try and read it. Baldy looked up at him and puffed his lips out. He smelled like cigarettes and shoe polish.

“What do you want?” the clerk asked.

_You’re really doing this? You fucking idiot!_

“I want!” Wade slammed his hands down flat onto the counter, leaning forward. “To—”

_NO YOU DON’T!_

**We need money! We can always find weapons later if we need them.**

“Buddy, I ain’t got all day,” the clerk said, annoyance twisting his features.

Wade reached behind his back and began the process of unbuckling all of his guns, knives, and ammunition, and adding them to the pile. The clerk’s eyes grew wider with every new device of destruction plopped down in front of him.

_NO NO NO NO!_

“I want to sell some things!”

Half an hour later, Wade was dividing wads of bills into his pouches as he left the pawn shop. He had sold all but his katanas, a .22 pistol, and a long knife he kept in his boot; they had been with him too long and he couldn’t let go. Besides, White wouldn’t stop screaming at him. Losing the katanas would ruin his silhouette.

He wondered what the going rates were for basic information in this timeline, and if he’d have enough cash to pay for it. Weasel’s life here was a complete mystery to him. The Weasel _he_ knew would have been difficult to track down for most people—people who weren’t Deadpool and didn’t know all the ways in which Weas was predictable—so he would have to assume that that was still the case.

It was well past dark when he found his way to the bar he was looking for. A beat up old place, the sign hung half crooked, and the front window was boarded up. A little neon sign hanging in the doorway said _Open_ , despite the seeming state of disrepair of the outside.

“Oh goodie, I was afraid they may have paved it over for another Starbucks,” Wade said, clapping his hands.

**On this end of town?**

_There’s always space somewhere for a wretched hive of scum and villainy._

“I’m making a rule. No Star Wars jokes in this fic.”

_You don’t make the goddamn rules._

Pushing through the door, Wade stepped inside, taking a deep whiff of the smells of beer, cigarette smoke, and body odor. The place was pretty much just as he remembered it. Some things hadn’t changed, then. That was a relief.

Striding his way over to the counter, he rapped his knuckles on its grimy surface and grinned at the bartender. It was a woman, dark skin, braided hair dyed a deep red, and a scowl on her face for his rudeness. “Hi! I need somebody who can find somebody for me.”

She stepped over in his direction, lifted an eyebrow, and pursed her lips. “Uh-huh.”

“Yes. I need _somebody_ who can _find_ somebody for me?” Wade said more slowly.

The woman cleared her throat and tapped a finger on the counter in front of him.

Impatiently, Wade dropped down what constituted as the new $20 in this world, with that face uglier than his stamped on it.

_That orange combover doesn’t look any better than it did before you fucked up history._

**We’ve got to find Weasel and make America great again.**

“No political jokes, either!”

The bartender looked at him crosswise, grabbed the $20 and slipped it down her shirt. “Nutcase.” She jerked her head towards a man sitting in a corner. “Skinny guy with the mohawk.”

The man in question wouldn’t give Wade his name. He was going to think of him as Mohawk, for lack of anything better to refer to him as.

“I need to find someone. As quickly as possible. Like, yesterday,” Wade said.

Mohawk sipped from a drink in front of him and adjusted his dark glasses. “Good for you. Heard of a thing called Google?”

“Ugh, one thing I _definitely_ don’t miss about mercenary work… All right, fine.” Deadpool pulled out another couple of bills and dropped them on the table. Mohawk shook his head. Wade added more. Again, Mohawk shook his head.

Wade slapped down half of his money, and finally Mohawk nodded, setting his drink down on top of it.

“Who are you looking for?” Mohawk pulled out a small digital tablet and tapped on it with speedy fingers. Every touch was accompanied by a little clicky noise, which was going to get old _very_ soon.

“Guy by the name of Jack Hammer. Uh… might also go by Weasel, I’m not sure,” Wade said.

Mohawk’s fingers stopped, and he lowered his glasses to peer at Wade. “You think you can steal the spider’s mark?”

Something in Wade’s gut went cold. “What?”

**Does he mean what it sounds like he means?**

_Ohhhh you shoulda taken the job!_

“Might be that I already heard about the guy you’re looking for,” Mohawk said. He crooked a finger at Deadpool, who leaned closer to hear his lowered voice. “Jack Hammer is Roxxon’s biggest brain, y’see.”

Deadpool snorted. “Weasel? A brain?”

**He fixed your teleporter before, and you’re snorting at him being referred to as a brain?**

_Just because he’s smart doesn’t mean he’s not also a moron._

Deadpool scowled and shook his head, waving his hand in the air as if he could shut his brain up that way. “Sorry, go on.”

“Talk is that Oscorp hired Spider-Man to take Hammer out and cripple the competition.”

_There’s irony for you._

**It’s not irony, it’s coincidence.**

_Don’t lecture me on linguistics._

“You’re sure this info is good??” Deadpool demanded, grabbing Mohawk’s hand.

Mohawk glared and yanked his hand back. “I said it’s _talk_. Now do you want the guy’s info or not? Guy like Hammer, I’ll have to dig a little harder. It’ll be more _costly_.”

“Yes yes fine, here!” Deadpool dug into his pouches and pulled out more cash to throw at Mohawk. His roll of old-world bills fell out in his haste, landing next to Mohawk’s tablet.

“What’s this?” he said, picking it up. “You have _old school_ cash?”

“Um. Yes. I, uh, raided grandma’s mattress before I left home this morning.”

“This’ll be enough. More than enough, actually.” Mohawk shoved Deadpool’s money into a pocket inside his jacket, grinning.

“Wait, I’m confused here,” Deadpool said.

Mohawk shrugged and rolled his shoulders, then tucked away all the cash he was keeping. “Not my problem you don’t know what you’ve got. Shit’s collectible now.”

Deadpool would have to worry about that situation later. He had to save Weasel from Spider-Man.

That was a thought that never in a million years would have crossed his mind _before_ all this.

“Fine, okay, address please!”

Waiting was hell. Deadpool drummed his fingers, tapped his toes, and chugged a few shots of hell-if-he-knew-what while Mohawk was getting him the information. The info dealer wrote it out on a scrap of paper, which Deadpool snatched up and stuffed away while he dashed out of the bar with barely a thank-you.

_I can’t believe you gave him all that money for a fucking rumor._

“No time to argue!” Deadpool’s boots pounded on the pavement as he ran back to Midtown where the Roxxon headquarters was. “I have to stop Peter!”


	2. Roxxon, Rocks Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool rushes to save Weasel from assassination by spider. He's got a time travel device to repair, and a time stream to fix, dammit! No time to waste!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words this chapter: 4,181

Saying that he had to stop Peter was one thing. Actually going out and stopping Peter was a completely different thing, because Peter was a very powerful man even when he was unarmed and in a good mood. This alternate Peter was an armed mercenary and a killer. Considering how Spider-Man was supposed to be the superhero standard, the yardstick against which all other heroes were measured, that was close to the most awful thing that Deadpool could think of.

The Roxxon building loomed closer as Deadpool ran through the streets towards it. A murderous Spider-Man was going to be difficult to stop, so he had to have a solid strategy in place. With limited time to concoct one, he had to think fast. The first thing that he had to figure out was how Spider-Man was going to kill Weasel.

Really. It was a really, _really_ awful thought.

Judging by the incident in the subway, most people had forgotten about Spider-Man. That suggested to Deadpool that the guy was fond of working in the shadows or at a distance, and avoided getting up close and personal. That would make sense, considering how his spider-sense would do him more good at a distance where he had maneuverability to avoid attacks. He already knew that alternate Spidey used guns, so that opened an entire new avenue of strategic possibilities.

What would Deadpool do in this circumstance? How would he complete this kill? From his regrettably large library of personal experience, if it were _his_ job—

_Which he fucking asked you to join in, moron._

**Shh, he’s concentrating.**

Deadpool gritted his teeth. His brain needed to shut up so he could focus. This was _important_.

Anyway, if it were his job, his kill, he’d get his ass to a nearby rooftop with a sniper rifle and go from there. Having information on Weasel’s movements that evening would be key to finding the best spot. Spider-Man would already have that information, so it was something that Deadpool didn’t have to figure out on his own. He only had to find Spider-Man, and guarantee that Weasel would get out of the building safely without Spider-Man noticing.

Checking the nearby buildings, a plan came to mind. It was a guaranteed success. It would definitely work. It would save Weasel, and he could make everything how it was, and everyone would be happy. Perfect.

After putting the first part of his plan into motion, and feeling proud of how smoothly he pulled it off, Deadpool busted out onto a rooftop next to the Roxxon building. He scanned the area with a pair of binoculars he’d filched from the security office downstairs, looking for the wall crawler. What were the likely places that _he_ would use as a sniper perch?

It took him about fifteen minutes, but he finally spotted the man. To his delight, it was in the skyscraper next door.

From his vantage point above the street, Deadpool scanned the area for the best way to get over to Spider-Man’s perch. The only route that looked like it could get him there in the shortest time was by crossing over the distance between the buildings. Once he got to the other side, he’d have to scale a few floors, but that was doable. As long as he didn’t fall and go splat on the way over there.

“Phew, all right.” Deadpool licked his lips, rolled his neck with a few soft _pops_ , and got in position to dash across the roof. He would need all the momentum he could get to make the jump across the alley.

Steeling himself for potential utter failure and extreme pain—from this height, he would break a hell of a lot more than his leg—he dug his toes into the rooftop gravel and ran. With singular focus, he rushed towards the edge, jumped for it, then shoved off with every ounce of strength he could muster, launching himself across the gap.

The boxes were screaming at him the entire way, but all he could see was what he was aiming for: the railing of the fire escape. All else disappeared as he got closer, and he caught it. The impact almost broke his fingers, but he caught it and he clung, though his thighs banged hard against the structure below.

He didn’t even realize he’d been screaming until he noticed that his throat was sore.

Pulling himself up with more of a groan than was strictly necessary, he flopped over onto his back and stared at the polluted sky. Up. He had to get up. Stop Spider-Man.

It was still ridiculously bizarre that he was even thinking that.

 _What in your life_ isn’t _ridiculously bizarre?_

**He has a point.**

“Get up, Deadpool, get your ugly ass up there.”

Fifteen minutes of climbing and complaining later, Deadpool shoved himself up over the ledge where he’d seen Spider-Man. “Hey, Spidey, it’s—!” He stopped mid-sentence, not seeing any sign of the wall crawler. “Huh.”

**Uh… where is he?**

_Unless I’m mistaken, that’s his rifle case over there. He’ll be back._

“I’m sure, but—oof!!”

A sudden force slammed into Deadpool’s back, flattening him to the roof. He was about to let out a dramatic shriek, but a firm hand slapped over his mouth. “Mmmfr mmff!”

“Fan boy, you sure like to squeal a lot.”

Deadpool twisted as much as he was able to look up at Spidey, who was kneeling on his back. Painfully.

“Ow, my kidney.”

With a soft _harrumph_ , Spider-Man climbed off of Deadpool’s back and stood up. Instead of helping Deadpool up, though, he pressed his foot to the back of Deadpool’s neck to hold him down. That was hardly better, since Spidey was 100% capable of snapping his neck with no effort whatsoever, no matter how gentle the pressure was at the moment.

“Urgh,” Deadpool groaned, forcing himself to relax and not struggle. He didn’t want to piss Spidey off any more than he had to. “Well, squealing is my greatest form of self expression. That, and running.”

Spider-Man leaned back a bit, sliding his toes down Deadpool’s spine. Deadpool swallowed, clenching and unclenching his fists.

 _Fuck that’s hot. He’s_ so _hot. Just fucking stay here._

**This is not Peter.**

“What, exactly, are you doing here?” Spider-Man demanded, running his foot back up to Deadpool’s neck, then down again into the small of his back. “How did you find me?”

“Well, uh…” Deadpool stammered, feeling his brain power ebbing with the loss of blood flow to lower places. “I just, uh, y’know, I reconsidered your offer. And, er, found some, ah—reliable sources that told me who your contract was. At least I think they were reliable. You’re here, and I’m here, so they must have been. Can I, uh, can I get up?”

Spider-Man made a _tsk_ noise and removed his foot from Deadpool’s back. “Maybe I’ll have to have a little chat with your sources. I don’t like competition.”

Deadpool scrambled to his feet, picking roof gravel out of his chin and elbows and from under his pouches. An adjustment of his pants was also in order. Peter’s strength was a huge turn on, and maybe Deadpool liked getting manhandled a little too much. “Y-yeah, well, uh, they were actually warning me off. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

There was a moment of tense silence, while Spider-Man crossed his arms and looked Deadpool up and down. He wasn’t sure that he liked the scrutiny.

“Well. Since you’re here, you might as well be useful,” Spider-Man said. “Since I invited you.” Striding to the ledge, he gestured below. “Keep an eye on that exit. It shouldn’t be in use this late at night. If anyone comes out, you let me know, understand?”

Deadpool snapped his heels together, throwing his arm up in a sharp salute. “Yes, sir, mister Spider-Man sir!”

Spider-Man’s expression was not visible through his mask, but Deadpool would swear on his entire awful life that the man was rolling his eyes at him. Well, Spidey could hardly be blamed for that. Deadpool knew what he was like. The body language did, however, throw into contrast yet again how different this man was from the one he’d known before. _His_ Peter would have rolled his eyes, yeah, but he would have laughed. Maybe a little chuckle.

Even a snicker would have been preferable to the silence that followed his flippant gesture.

With an exaggerated sigh, Deadpool relaxed his posture and slunk over to the lookout that Spider-Man had designated for him. He had to keep up appearances, even though if anyone did use the exit, Wade would _not_ be alerting Spidey. He knew very well what would happen if he did. _Bam bam_ , dead.

Deadpool leaned against a nearby wall and folded his arms with a weary sigh.

_Don’t tell me you didn’t think that was hot._

“It wasn’t,” Deadpool muttered under his breath.

_You’re a filthy liar._

“All right, it was.”

Spidey looked over at him. “What was what?”

“Nothing!”

“Hrm.” Spider-Man regarded him again, and then set about opening his rifle case and unpacking his gun. It was a big gun, the kind that couldn’t be disassembled into fewer than four large pieces. Of course, that’s why it had the case. The case couldn’t even be discrete.

Deadpool did his best to at least _pretend_ that he was playing lookout. It would be bad if Spider-Man figured out that he was trying to be a distraction on purpose. Deadpool’s plan relied on it.

Unfortunately, he was having several problems keeping on task. One of these was how arousing it was to watch Spidey expertly putting the rifle together. He knew Peter had enhanced agility, but he had never seen it put to more complicated use than replacing batteries in the TV remote or fiddling with his web shooters. Watching those hands twist and click and snap the gun’s pieces into place was putting thoughts into his head that he wouldn’t want to describe in polite company.

**Not that you’re ever in polite company.**

_You’re such a pervert._

**Uh, yeah, and this is news how?**

“I would love those fingers jangling my jimmies,” Deadpool said, keeping his voice quiet.

**Are you gonna save Weasel’s life or aren’t you? Focus, man.**

_Why bother? Look, you’ve got everything you want right here._

“Not everything.”

The other problem that Deadpool had was the gun itself. Once Spidey had it unpacked and halfway put together, Deadpool recognized it. It was not only a very _large_ gun—not as large as his boner, he thought—it was a very _nice_ gun. Only the best for Spidey, of course.

“Is… is…” Deadpool stammered, staring at the weapon. It was beautiful. Each piece glinted in the gross orange light from the city lights bouncing off the cloud layer. “Is tha—is that—“

Spider-Man cleared his throat and made an impatient gesture. “A what? Is that a what? A gun? How else am I supposed to shoot the fucker?”

Deadpool rolled his jaw around the lump in his throat. Those words in Peter’s voice were surreal. “Is that a Windrunner? Please, please is that a Windrunner?”

Spidey snorted and set the rifle stand in position. He clicked the rifle onto it, and then settled into his seat behind it on a folding stool he’d brought with him. “Good catch,” he said.

Quivering with excitement, Deadpool made grabby hands towards the gun. “You modified it?”

“Obviously.”

Fucking hell, that was a sexy gun. The sexiest gun. He was so conflicted watching Spider-Man handle the big, beautiful gun. On one hand, it oozed manly virility off of every slick surface, and seeing Spider-Man with his clever, dexterous fingers all over it was a dream come true. On the other hand, Spider-Man wasn’t supposed to use guns. Spider-Man wasn’t supposed to be a killer.

“Hoo, that is a big boy. A _big_ boy.”

“Uh-huh,” came a jaded response. Spidey continued to tighten pieces until he had everything in place. Then he lay down across the roof, and nestled the gun against his shoulder to check the scope.

“Can… can I lick it?”

“You want to… lick it.”

“Y-yes p-please,” Deadpool said. He wanted to lick it so bad. Not as much as he wanted to lick Spider-Man in that sexy black and red suit, but he definitely wanted to lick the gun. The big, beautiful, shiny gun.

**You’re saying all of this out loud.**

“No I’m not,” he argued.

Spider-Man made a frustrated noise and flapped his hand at Deadpool. “Later! Just—just go back over there. I told you to keep a lookout!”

“So _bossy_ ,” Deadpool muttered, shuffling back to his spot.

_What exactly is your plan here? Didn’t you already call Roxxon’s security?_

Deadpool knew what his plan was, but he couldn’t remember the specifics anymore. Spider-Man was really distracting. Wait, wasn’t _he_ supposed to be the distraction?

**This was a bad idea.**

_When have you ever had a good idea, though?_

**Saving Peter after he got shot in the head was a good idea.**

_But saving Uncle Ben was a bad idea._

“Shush.”

_I’ll tell you what’s a good idea. Staying here._

**You’re such a broken record.**

_Yeah, and I’m right. Look at that piece of ass. I bet he’d fuck you._

Yeah, Deadpool thought he probably would, too.

_And you wanna fuck him._

Six ways to Sunday and back, yes. Absolutely yes. On every surface in every apartment in New York City. On every wall. Even the fourth wall.

_This guy’s not gonna pussyfoot around about it. This guy knows how to get what he wants._

Deadpool knew that he shouldn’t want this alternate Spider-Man so much. It wasn’t _his_ Spider-Man.

_If he’s willing, it would hardly be a problem._

Sure, but he was going to fix the timeline. It _would_ be a problem. It just wouldn’t be right for him to come here, get it on with alternate Spidey, and then go home to his own Spidey. It would make things awkward as hell.

Even if he wanted nothing more than to get down on his knees and worship every inch of Spider-Man’s body. Even if he wanted to have wild monkey sex in the back of a limousine. Even if he wanted to do “The Angry Pirate” on top of the Empire State Building, “The Arabian Goggles” on the subway, or “The Tobey McGuire” in the back of the theater for a showing of Hamilton.

Deadpool may not want the life that he once did, but being there with Spider-Man like this made it impossible not to be tempted. No lectures on morality, no siding with the government in some stupid civil war, no self sacrificing heroics and Peter getting himself killed.

_Just the two of you being badass mercs together._

It was difficult to remember that Weasel’s life was in danger when all Deadpool wanted to do was jump Spidey and roll around naked with him on the roof.

**You know that we’re just deflecting, right?**

_Oh good, I wanted a lecture. Let’s hear it._

**We watched Peter die. We left him, and he died.**

Deadpool paced back and forth across his section of roof, curling his fingers into his mask and digging them into his cheeks. He tried to save him! That’s what he was doing now! Saving him from himself, from the fucked up timeline!

**This isn’t a roleplay fantasy. This is real. This is what he’s like.**

_So what? What’s your point?_

**My point is we need to chill and focus.**

Deadpool didn’t want to chill, he wanted Spidey to bend him over that rifle and ride him into the sunset.

**I give up.**

The next two hours were spent more or less the same. Every now and then, Spider-Man would snap at him for fidgeting or pacing too much, but overall he was silent. Deadpool was not used to Spider-Man being so quiet. Even when he would give him a verbal prod every now and then, to maintain the distraction, the sass level was high but the word count was low. It was unusual. He had grown accustomed to his Peter’s mannerisms, but this Peter was completely new.

_New and exciting!_

Yes, Deadpool thought, and also angry.

Spider-Man was disassembling his rifle again, irritation written on every angle of his posture and in every impatient flick of his fingers. Deadpool knew why he was mad. He’d missed his window. Deadpool had made sure of it, but he still did not know how Spider-Man was going to react. Peter Parker as a big loser nerd, he knew. Loser nerd Peter was predictable. Mercenary Peter was a mystery.

Worst came to worst, he could always jump off the roof again. At least Weasel was safe. That was the important thing. Weasel was safe, and he could go find the guy and get him to fix the harness. If Weasel was working for Roxxon, and he was their “biggest brain”, as the info dealer had said, then he’d definitely be able to handle that project.

“Umm,” Deadpool said. “Guess you missed him?” Brilliant commentary, as usual.

“No shit,” Spider-Man snarled. “Figured that out all on your own?”

“Ah, well, there’s always tomorrow! Or another day. Or, like, next Thursday. Thursday is a good day.”

“Just—just go,” Spider-Man pointed a sharp finger towards the rooftop exit. “This was a bad idea. Just get out of here.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Deadpool said. Not wanting to wait and test Spidey’s patience, he made a hasty exit, shimmying down the fire escape from one level to the next.

“Even if he’s mad, at least Peter won’t have to be a murdering asshole for long,” he said to himself.

_You’re an idiot for wanting to choose mister high and mighty over that fine piece of ass._

**It’s the same piece of ass.**

_Are you kidding? You looked at his ass, right? That is a_ firm _ass. Not at all the same._

“I miss Peter’s soft bubble butt,” Wade sobbed.

**Hurry and climb down so we can fix him!**

“I can only climb down so fast!”

_You could always jump._

“I don’t want to do that again.”

Arguing with himself the whole way down, Wade jumped from the second floor after all, impatient to get street level and find himself a cab. It was late at night, but this was Midtown. There were cabs all over the place. Or there should be, according to his experience.

It was probably safest to catch a cab as far away from Spider-Man as he could, in case he decided to take his frustration out on Wade. So Wade hoofed it towards Broadway, knowing there were probably more cabs available in that area anyway.

Once he was standing outside a small theater that was host to the return of Cats, he found a cab that helpfully pulled over when Wade jumped into the road in front of it, waving his arms wildly.

“Geeze, man! The hell is your problem?” The cabbie was unreasonably angry when Wade got inside the vehicle. “You wanna get run over?”

By way of an answer, Wade pulled out his remaining gun and shoved it against the cabbie’s temple and shouted Weasel’s upper east side address at him. “Move it, move it! This is a matter of life and death!”

At that point, the driver looked about ready to crap his pants. “Oh god, oh god oh fuck, you’re one of _those_ motherfuckers. Please, don’t kill me!”

“What? No, not _your_ life!” Wade shook his head and knocked the barrel of the gun harder against the driver’s skull. “Go!”

The cabbie drove just as crazy as Wade could’ve wished, although that late at night it wasn’t exactly necessary. Yellow and White argued with each other throughout the entire ride, while Wade ignored them, preferring to sing Tom Jones songs in the driver’s ear.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered; he was going to change this fucked up world back to what it was supposed to be. He’d go back, he’d un-save Uncle Ben, then he’d go back to the stupid civil war and save Peter’s stupid hide from getting crushed under the stupid building that stupid Thor knocked over.

Everything was “stupid this” and “stupid that”, but he couldn’t help that he was finally feeling better about all of this. A solution was within his grasp, and that was wonderful.

“Here, here!” he shouted at his driver when they arrived at the right address. As he was struggling out of the cab, he tapped his pouches quickly. “Uh, sorry I ain’t got any cash. Happy Chanukah!”

While he dashed off, he barely caught the driver shouting at him, “It’s fucking August!” before the car screeched off down the road.

Wade tilted his head to look up at the building where Weasel’s apartment was. This was one of those _fancy_ places, and he was going to have to find some way to sneak into the parking garage. The easiest way to do that would be to camp out and wait for someone to enter or leave the building through the electronic door, then slip in around them. That was doable, wasn’t it?

He’d been in such a rush to get there, and now he was playing the “hurry up and wait” game. What else was new? If nobody came in half an hour, he’d climb the building. Even though he was sick of climbing buildings. He wasn’t Spider-Man.

At least that made him laugh a little.

Somebody did go through about ten minutes later. A little electric car that sounded as pathetic as it looked. Wade and the boxes shared a few derogatory comments about it as he navigated his way into the building to find the elevator to Weasel’s upper floor unit.

A quick knock on Weasel’s door, and Wade ducked to the side out of sight of the peep hole.

After a long minute, during which Wade knocked again, Weasel’s voice finally came from the other side. “Who is it?”

“Pizza delivery! Pineapple and anchovies!” Wade said cheerfully.

“The fuck? I didn’t order any goddamn pizza. It’s fucking 2am, go away!”

“I have coupons!” Wade said.

More swearing and grumbling from inside, and the door began to open. When it was cracked the barest inch, Wade shoved his weight against it and forced his way inside.

“What the fuck! Who the fuck are you! Oh my god, the phone call wasn’t a hoax.” Weasel said, backing away from Deadpool. He knocked into a small table, and the lamp sitting on top of it fell with a clatter. “They said someone had called in an anonymous tip, that Osborn had put out a hit on me. They rushed me out of the building, but I was—I didn’t believe them. Fuck, Osborn really sent you to kill me!”

“No, no! Shh!” Wade held his hands up. “It’s not true! I mean it is true that Osborn sent someone to kill you, but it wasn’t me! I swear. I’m the one who called security! I’m actually harmless.”

“You expect me to believe that?! You’re fucking armed!”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Get the hell out of here right fucking now or I’m calling the cops.”

In a panic, Wade threw up his hands. “No, wait, please! Just let me talk to you real quick! I have an itsy bitsy teeny weenie problem I need your help with.”

Before Weasel could answer, something big and heavy thundered down the hallway outside his door.

“JACK HAMMER!”

**Oh no.**

_Well this should be interesting._

**We know that voice.**

Wade turned back to the door, and Weasel did too. In the next moment, there was a flash and a _bang_. Wade lost his vision in that moment, his mask suddenly covered in some thick substance. He heard a _thump_ , and he reached up to wipe his eyes clear of—

—brain matter.

All Deadpool could do was stare at his hands. They were coated in the contents of Weasel’s skull. The squelchy, bloody brain goo was oozing its way through the fabric of his mask, and he began to hyperventilate.

“Who the fuck are you?” the intruder asked.

Deadpool saw red. Literally and figuratively. He recognized Crossbones, oh yes he did. “Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve just done?!”

“Yeah, I’ve collected an easy half a mil, and stole it right from fucking Spider-Man,” Crossbones chuckled. “And now I’m gonna eliminate the rest of the competition, whoever the fuck you are.”

Screaming profanities, Deadpool unsheathed his katanas and took a leap at Crossbones.

His assault lasted all of two seconds before the second round in Crossbones’ shotgun took off the top half of his head.

 _BOOM_.

**Hello darkness, my old friend.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not. :)
> 
> To be continued.
> 
> You can scream at me on tumblr if you want. I'm @[bexorz](http://bexorz.tumblr.com/) for mostly my art, or @[bexalizard](http://bexalizard.tumblr.com/) for everything else.
> 
> Really though, please let me know what you think. I have this sort of skewed idea of the story in my head because I've done so much plotting that it feels like I've written it already when I haven't. XD


	3. Wade Gets Fucked, Literally and Figuratively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is going wrong even when it should be going right.
> 
> This chapter is NSFW for sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 4,963
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> Last chapter, Wade rushed to save Weasel from the big bad Spider-Man, only to end up seeing his head blown off by Crossbones. Then he got his own head blown off by Crossbones. Bummer.

**We know that smell.**

_You’re inside a body bag._

**Yep, that explains it.**

Deadpool jerked to full consciousness and took in a huge gasping breath, his empty lungs starved for oxygen. What he got instead of oxygen was more smell of death overwhelming his senses. On the plus side, he was used to it, so he didn’t have much urge to vomit. A little bit of one. It wasn’t only _his_ death he was smelling, it was the smell of used body bag. Sure, they were sanitized between corpses, but there was no way to get them completely clean ever again.

**How many times have we been in one of these?**

Too many. Way too many. Deadpool’s life was an exhausting mimicry of death.

While gasping for clean air, he wiggled around as much as he could within the restricted space, struggling to get hold of the knife in his boot so that he could cut himself free. After an uncomfortable few minutes, while his panic rose, his fingers finally grasped the hilt. He gutted the bag from the inside and popped out. Finally getting that fresh breath he needed, he sat there and looked around to assess his surroundings.

He was in the back of a CSI van by the looks of it. There was no one in the driver’s seat, but taking a look out the front window showed him that he was no longer at Weasel’s apartment, but outside of a police station. His katanas lay on the floor nearby, and he snatched them up to slide them back into their sheaths on his back.

All at once, he remembered that Weasel was dead. That piece of shit Crossbones had blown his brains all over the wall and Deadpool’s face. There were _still_ bits of goo stuck to his costume.

Deadpool’s breath quickened, and his chest got tight. “Weasel’s dead. Weasel’s dead. Weasel’s dead.” He grasped the time travel device in both hands, rocking back and forth. His pulse roared in his ears and throbbed in his eyeballs. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. He was supposed to be on his way to fixing things by now. Or at _least_ pacing around Weasel’s apartment impatiently while the nerdy dweebus fixed the device for him.

Now he didn’t know what to do, and everything was horrible and wrong. Once again, it was his fault. He hadn’t protected Weasel well enough, and Weasel had been blasted to death right in front of him, along with his chances of repairing the timeline.

Well, he was due for a panic attack sooner or later; later would have been preferable.

Before he figured out a plan B, he had to get out of there. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged in by the authorities.

_Then it’ll be time for slice and dice! Find the pancreas!_

**It has been some time since we’ve inventoried our organs.**

“Nope, nope, nope,” Deadpool said, shaking his head. He hopped to his feet and tugged on his costume. It was disgusting. It was so gross from guts and decomp that even washing off in the Hudson would be an improvement.

_Steal the van! Plow through the gates!_

**Oh, yeah, that’s a definite way to get caught.**

Focus on one thing at a time. That’s what he had to do to get through this. The big picture was horrible, so the details would save him. First detail was assessing himself. His mask was destroyed, so he pulled off the remains and tossed it onto the floor of the van. Next was getting out of the van. Before he did that, he gathered up a few odds and ends from the vehicle’s supplies that might be useful, and stuffed them into his pouches.

**The fuck are we gonna do with zip ties?**

_Wowza, you are sure lacking in imagination._

“Shut up! Both of you!” Deadpool punched himself in the head several times, attempting to get some peace and quiet. While he’d been dead he had been spared the chore of dealing with those texty motherfuckers.

Digging around some more, he found a blue N.Y.P.D. windbreaker that fit him and hid the silhouette of his katanas to some extent, as well as a cap with CSI embroidered on the front. That was good. He could remain somewhat inconspicuous. The classic red and black wasn’t exactly subtle.

He had to stop wasting time. It wouldn’t be long before they’d come for his corpse to drag him off to autopsy. The fact that he was no longer a corpse would result in a lot of unnecessary drama. It was amazing that they hadn’t already come out for him. What were they doing, leaving a decomposing corpse sitting out in a van?

**They were probably taking care of Weasel first.**

Yanking the CSI cap down onto his bald head, he slipped into the front seat. Edging over to the passenger side, he opened the door only as far as he absolutely had to and squeezed himself through the gap. There was no one around on that side of the parking lot, fortunately, and it was still very early in the morning. The sun wasn’t bright enough to make his escape obvious.

Was it still considered an escape when he hadn’t been arrested, and wasn’t being kept as any sort of prisoner?

“Being stuffed in a corpse locker is imprisonment enough,” he muttered to himself.

_Come on, Steve McQueen, get over that fucking fence._

Deadpool rolled his eyes. Did people even get that reference anymore?

_According to the canon we’re working with, the author’s older than you are._

“Fuck off, man.”

Deadpool crept to the edge of the van and peered around the edge. He was at the 23rd Precinct, except it didn’t look like the 23rd Precinct that he remembered. It looked more like a military outpost than a chic urban law enforcement facility. The reinforced barbed wire at the top of the fence was new.

**Is it time for another Wizard of Oz joke?**

_No, better save it for something more dramatic._

Without a badge, and with his ugly face giving him away, how was he going to get out of the compound? The fence? That barbed wire was going to hurt.

“Bring it on, motherfuckers.”

Deadpool began strolling casually towards the back fence. From towards the station building, he heard shouts of alarm. Someone had discovered that their corpse was missing. That was going to make things interesting.

“Hey you! Get back here and identify yourself!”

Well, that didn’t take long.

“I’m Donald Trump’s golf caddy! I have immunity!”

He jumped up onto the fence, the jangle of the chain links mingling with the noises of pursuit. With his head start, he had no problem reaching the top with more than enough time to evade the initial chase. In his haste to get to the other side, he got his legs tangled in the wires. Shrieking and squealing like a baby pig, he kicked himself free, though not without the wires shredding his legs.

Leaving a trail of blood and curses behind him, Wade ran west down the street towards Central Park. If his sense of geography of New York City was intact after Crossbones blew his brains out, it was the easiest spot to get to where he could wash the gore out of his costume. Being soaked in blood was one thing, but there were actual bits of Weasel stuck on him.

While his boots pounded the pavement, and people stared at him running by in his pilfered police jacket, he took stock of the current situation. He had zero moneys, no weapons besides his little pistol and his katanas, his harness was still busted, and Weasel was now dead. Weasel, the dude who had helped him to fix the harness before, who was still smart enough in the altered timeline to get a job with Roxxon and be one of those hoity-toity corporate scientists.

This version of Weasel didn’t know him, hadn’t recognized him, but the man had still been one of Deadpool’s best friends. And he’d seen him splattered to death right in front of him.

_It’s not the first time._

**Kelly’s series doesn’t count here, asshole!**

_Even so, think about it for a minute. Without you fucking up his life, look what he accomplished._

He’s fucking _dead!_

_Fine, fine, he’s dead. Let me find the world’s smallest violin._

**He was more successful in his life without our influence.**

_Besides, he only mostly tolerated you._

**We did threaten his life on multiple occasions. That affects a relationship.**

Escaping to the rooftops, Deadpool made his way west into Central Park. He wanted to get out of easy line of sight of anyone who might be in pursuit. Who was he kidding, though? Of course someone would be in pursuit. They would probably assume that he did something with their corpse. Nobody knew who Deadpool was, or they would’ve locked him up while he regenerated.

Like that time that he didn’t want to think about. And that other time that he didn’t want to think about. And _that_ time that he didn’t want to think about. Probably a full half of his life was shit that he didn’t want to think about. Being fucked in the head and forgetting things constantly was sometimes a blessing.

That meant that the time he’d spent with Peter had been all the more precious, and like the major fuckup he was, he’d thrown it away.

It was too early in the morning for Central Park to be crowded, and also too early for the vendors to be out and about. Deadpool wandered the path towards the north woods, where he’d scrub the gore off his costume in Harlem Meer. After that, he’d need a hoodie, and he’d need food. With everything that had happened, he couldn’t remember the last time that he had eaten something, and his stomach was churning in its emptiness. Had he eaten since he’d changed the timeline, or was his last meal that ass-burning Mexican food he’d had before Cap’s big motivational battle speech? How long ago had that been, anyway?

**In linear time, or stomach time?**

_Pretend it’s Christmas with Bob and go rob a jewelry store for food money._

No, Deadpool wasn’t going to do that.

 _No, no, no. All you’re good for now is_ no _. Why are you being such a stubborn, boring shit? Where did your sense of humor go?_

**Time to start panhandling.**

Sure, like anyone would give money to an armed maniac sprawled on the sidewalk. What was he supposed to do, juggle? Dance? Sing? Offer blowjobs?

**Pretend we’re a homeless veteran.**

“Oh, goodie, that’s lucky! I am absolutely homeless, and I’m also a veteran! The jackpot of hobo sympathy!”

_Dishonorable discharge doesn’t count, you twatwaffle._

It was several hours before he was able to clean his uniform—as clean as he could get it in filthy pond water, so it still smelled gross but didn’t have brains on it—and snatch food and clothing from street vendors along the road. While he was getting screamed at, he put his running legs to good use and made his way to somewhere more private where he could slip into the baja hoodie and NYC baseball cap. Ditching the police gear was the best option, since it would make him stand out more at this point.

In a public bathroom, he changed his clothes and washed his face. The hoodie he’d grabbed was red with black stripes, and large enough to fit him with a little room to be baggy. It had been on the top of the pile on the table, too, so it was a lucky find on his part. It didn’t clash with his pants, either. Bonus.

For a few minutes he stared at his reflection in the grimy old mirror above a grimier sink, hardly recognizing himself. He had made so many mistakes, it was impossible to pin down one that he would wish to go back and change that would’ve made everything better. Without erasing his entire life.

**But we’re already doing the “It’s A Wonderful Life” bit in here. Wade Wilson is dead in this world, remember? And he was never Deadpool.**

The world should be a better place without Deadpool in it, but it wasn’t. But he wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking that he’d really done any good in his life. It was the lack of a heroic Spider-Man that had messed things up.

He put the new cap on his head, and left the police jacket and cap shoved into the back of one of the dirty stalls before he stepped back out onto the street. The pretzel and the hot dog hadn’t been enough to fill him up, and his stomach was still growling, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

With no Weasel, he had to figure something else out. He _could_ go find Tony Stark and see if this Tony, with all his resources, could reverse engineer the device and allow him to time travel again. With how improbable Wade’s story about the world was, he had no way to guarantee that Tony would believe it. There was no proof that Tony wouldn’t think that Wade’s… _condition_ … was more valuable to investigate than the time travel device. Wade didn’t have a way to prove the story, and he definitely didn’t want to risk becoming a science experiment again.

**The world is messed up, but you only changed the last ten years. Tony wouldn’t do that.**

_A lot can happen in ten years. Especially in comic book time. Maybe Tony Stark is a sociopath who’ll dissect anyone for any reason._

Cable was the obvious choice as a Plan B. In fact, Wade was surprised that the overpowered mutant hadn’t shown up already to give him a spanking and fix things. Oh, sure, Wade figured that Nate would have some comment to offer about how fixing his own mistakes builds character, but how long was this shit supposed to continue? How long was he going to have to power through and suffer until Nate decided he’d learned his lesson?

**Hey, he’s the one who warned us Spider-Man was going to die. Maybe he trusts us to figure it out.**

_Can we go back to thinking about that spanking?_

**Watch out.**

“Huh?”

Splat.

Looking down, he saw that he’d stepped in a huge pile of dog shit, abandoned during someone’s morning walk through Central Park. It was still fresh, and the smell overwhelmed his nose when he lifted his foot again. “Well isn’t that just Princess Peachy.”

**Remember Cable’s old safe house in Hell’s Kitchen? He’s had that place for way longer than ten years. It would still be there.**

That was as good a place as any to start looking for him. Cable had taken Wade there a few times in the past, collecting gear for missions. It was completely off the grid, an ignored unit on top of an older apartment building with no running water and barely enough room to move around in with all the junk filling the space. It wasn’t only weapons and tech that Cable stuffed in there, but random clothes and furniture and knickknacks from all his time hopping. Shit that he thought he could sell one day, or had simply been too lazy to get rid of.

Wade made his way out of the park and pointed himself in that direction. His stomach was still growling, but he ignored it. Who needed food when you had a healing factor, anyway?

He ignored the reminder that his healing factor burned a lot of calories and stubbornly refused to steal a hot dog.

It took him an hour to get there. He scaled the building with the help of an old tree, a laundry line stretched between that building and the next, and a busted fire escape. When he saw the entrance to Nate’s little place, he frowned. The hideout was on the top floor, but the top floor only took up half the top of the building. The rest was rooftop.

His first concern was that the door didn’t have the same security lock on it that he remembered. It didn’t have a lock on it at all, in fact. The door was slightly ajar and the wood around the handle was splintered. Someone had broken in. How long ago, he couldn’t say.

This was not good.

Drawing his katanas from under his hoodie, Wade nudged the door open with the toe of his boot. It creaked in dramatic fashion, swinging open on rusty hinges. Taking careful steps inside, he reached out to flick the light switch, but there was no response. The windows were boarded up from the inside, but enough sunlight squeezed in through various cracks for him to get a decent look around once his eyes adjusted.

His nose, however, had no problem immediately identifying the aroma of neglect and decay. Rat shit, mold, and dust. He sneezed violently, and was suddenly thankful he wasn’t wearing a mask.

Putting his blades away again, careful not to shred the baja jacket, Wade frowned. He recognized the overturned couch in the corner, though it was in far worse shape than he’d last seen it. Half of Nate’s cool junk was gone. There were no weapons. In the fridge, which was unplugged, was nothing but hazardous waste that was unidentifiable as any kind of food, and a container of desiccated hummus.

“Come on, Nate. Hummus?” Wade slammed the fridge door and looked around. “What the fuck, man? Nate! Show your glowing one-eyed metal-dicked face!”

He kicked an empty box on the floor, which turned out not to be empty because he heard broken glass jingling inside of it. With a yell, he kicked it a few more times. “Where the fuck are you, Cable? What, did your favorite pizza joint stop delivering to this neighborhood? You shacking up with Domino somewhere in the future and forget about this place?”

No response. Obviously.

Wade grabbed a bowling ball off the floor and smashed it through an old vacuum TV sitting in the corner. “Fuck you, Nate!”

There was no evidence in the apartment of where Cable was. Wade spent an hour looking, and he didn’t find anything. With the way Nate’s life worked, there were too many possibilities for Wade to even start guessing what had happened there. What was he supposed to do now, suck it up and go visit Tony Stark?

_You can’t even bear to do that after shooting him in the face._

Deadpool hated admitting when White was right, so he ignored the comment.

In any case, there was nothing for him there. He had to plan his next move. Or find a corner somewhere to curl up in until he was too hungry to ignore his stomach. Maybe a street corner instead of a dark corner, so he could at least beg for handouts.

Once outside, he fiddled with the door to see if there was anything he could do to actually lock it. If Cable wasn’t taking care of the place, maybe Wade could adopt it. If he could put up with the constant reminder that his ex husband was missing.

Sighing, he turned again to leave. That sigh turned into an embarrassing child-like shriek when he saw Spider-Man crouched on the ledge nearby, and he flattened himself against the brick wall.

**Oh, fuck. We were not expecting to see him again.**

_What, you think he’d_ disappear _because you decided to change the timeline back?_

“ ** _You_** ,” Spider-Man said, the word thick with menace.

**He is as terrifying as he is arousing.**

_Something we agree on! Let’s have a party!_

“Y-yes? Ah—me?” Wade stammered, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

With the speed granted to him by his super powers, Spider-Man was across the roof and pinning Deadpool against the wall before he could blink. Spider-Man dug his fingers into Deadpool’s shoulders, making him wince.

“You _piece_ of _shit._ ”

**Uh oh.**

“You made me miss my target. Fucking _Crossbones_ sabotaged my operation because _you_ distracted the fuck out of me.” Spider-Man’s voice was as low and scary as Deadpool had ever heard it.

Those fingers dug in harder, and Wade bit his lip, wishing that he still had his mask to hide his face. Even though the rest of him was well covered, having his face bare made him feel immensely vulnerable.

“Crossbones?” Wade swallowed. He was half hard already.

_Ha ha ha, you are so messed up._

**He’s going to fuck us up. He is _so_ mad. We’ve never heard Peter this mad before.**

With a snarl, Spider-Man yanked Deadpool away from the wall and shoved him onto the gravel. “Do you know how much _money_ I lost? How fucking _insulting_ it is that a two-bit loser like Crossbones stole a kill right out from under me?” He curled his fist in Deadpool’s shirt front, dragging him up again and holding him up against the bricks.

“I’m—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Spider-Man ripped the baseball cap off Wade’s head and threw it behind him. “Were you _trying_ to be distracting with all that shit you were saying?”

**I told you you were saying it out loud.**

“I—uh,” Wade swallowed. “Who knew you were even listening?” Even if he’d said things out loud instead of in his head, alternate Spider-Man hadn’t responded a lot to half the crazy things that had come out of Wade’s mouth, so he wouldn’t have thought—

“How could I not listen? You were being _extremely_ explicit.”

Wade let out a nervous laugh, his dangling feet kicking a little as he fidgeted against Spider-Man’s grip. “Well, that’s me, pushing up the rating in everything I’m featured in!”

Spider-Man let go, dumping Wade back to the ground. “You cost me so much money, maybe I’ll just take it out of your ass.”

A sharp emotion that Wade couldn’t identify ran through him. “Look, just wait a sec, nobody knows that I deserve a good beating more than I do, but can I get a rain check on that? I’ve already woken up in a body bag once today.”

Wade had no way of interpreting the expression on Peter’s face under his mask—somehow this version of him was too different—but he assumed it was anger or derision or something along those lines. Apparently he was very wrong.

“You think _that’s_ what I meant?” Spider-Man pressed his masked lips against Wade’s ear, and a firm hand rubbed Wade’s burgeoning erection through his trousers. “After everything you said about my body?”

The boxes were screaming again. Wade couldn’t hear himself think over the cacophony. His brain was officially shorting out, and his surprise and shock were clear on his face for Spider-Man to see, including the heat blossoming in his cheeks. There was no way to hide the effect this was having on him.

 _Oh my god he’s gonna fuck us against this wall. This is hot. This is_ so _hot._

**Objectively, yeah, but—**

_Shut your fucking trap._

“R-remind me?” Wade frowned. His body and half his heart were shouting _yes_ , but the other half of his heart was frozen in indecision. This was Peter, but it wasn’t _his_ Peter, and—

_Oh no you don’t. Don’t you dare say no!_

“No,” Spider-Man said. “I’ll demonstrate.”

Spider-Man kissed him hard, not removing his mask. He leaned against Wade, pinning him more firmly against the wall. His fingers continued their work below, bringing Deadpool junior to full attention in short order. Wade was moaning soon enough, clutching at Spider-Man’s waist, unable to do much else right then.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Spider-Man said. He tugged at Wade’s zipper, pulling it down and shoving the hoodie off Wade’s shoulders.

It was so unreal, Wade could do nothing. He was lonely, upset, touch starved, and he missed Peter so much. This wasn’t the real Peter, but it was the next best thing, and he wanted it. He wanted it so bad.

“Take this thing off of you,” Spider-Man demanded, tugging on the harness. It made Wade twitch a little, worrying about the time travel device, but without saying anything he undid the buckles and snaps and the harness came free. Spider-Man tossed it onto the ground behind him with a clatter.

“You gonna leave your mask on?” Wade asked, while Spidey was biting his neck through the fabric. “Not gonna let me see your pretty— _ah_!”

Spider-Man shut him up by grinding his thigh into Wade’s crotch. “ _No._ ”

That was it. No. No innuendo, no banter. Just no. Just Spider-Man tugging at his belt clasp, pulling his cock out and giving him a few confident strokes with gloves on.

“Your skin. Is it like this everywhere? I thought it was just your face.”

“Uh— _hah_ —yeah—everywhere.” Wade pressed the back of his head against the wall, hips jerking in Spider-Man’s grip, little gasps escaping his throat.

Spider-Man pulled his hand away, and Wade bit his lip to stop from whining. “It’s not contagious, is it?”

Deadpool barked a laugh. “Not unless you’re allergic to cancer.”

“… that’s not what contagious means.”

“Ha! Nerd.”

“Fuck you.” Spider-Man wasn’t laughing.

**Who the hell is this guy? He has no sense of humor.**

_Still worth it. Don’t antagonize him! He might still want to beat you up._

Wade felt Spidey’s hand on his dick again, thumb running over the slit. The texture of the fabric over the sensitive skin made him shiver and gasp.

“Do you actually have condoms and lube in those pouches of yours like you were babbling, or were you just spouting shit?” Spider-Man said.

“Oh, ha ha, I always come prepared, any time any place.” Deadpool popped the button on the pouch where he kept those things. “Pun intended.”

That got the tiniest little snort of laughter out of Spider-Man. Small steps, but it felt so good to hear after all the rough stuff.

It wasn’t long before Spider-Man had Deadpool bent in half against the wall, legs propped over his shoulders. He ditched the gloves, and with well-lubricated fingers was working Deadpool open thoroughly and methodically. Through the waves of pleasure and increasing desire rolling through him, Deadpool absently thought how this was far different from how he had fantasized their first time.

How many nights had he spent curled up with Peter, companionably sharing the same bed? Draped over each other on the couch while they were hanging out? How many times had he pictured Peter kissing him, whispering in his ear, smiling down at him while they were locked at the hip? How many times had he imagined Peter rolling him in those cheap bedsheets, but still real bedsheets in a real bed, and not hard and fast and cold against the wall outside Cable’s old safe house?

This was not how he’d pictured giving himself to Peter at all.

A cry wrenched from his throat as Spider-Man slid his dick home inside Deadpool. They stayed like that for a few moments, Deadpool’s ankles locked behind Spidey’s back, his muscles spasming around the intruding member while he got used to it. It had been a while.

“Aren’t you just as nice and hot as you promised?” Spider-Man said.

Deadpool wrapped his arms around Spider-Man’s neck and buried his face against his own shoulder. “Just—just fuck me already. Please.”

Spider-Man didn’t waste any more time. Furthermore, he knew what he was doing. Unlike the real Peter, it was evident that he knew his way around a man’s body and was comfortable with it. Deadpool gasped, moaned, and rocked his hips in time with Peter’s thrusts, letting himself drift off in the pleasure.

Peter had the same voice, and he had the same smell. It was easy enough to pretend. Pretend it was his own Peter, and not this stranger who was Peter. Alternate Spider-Man. Alt Pete. Not Peter, alt Pete.

**It’s still Peter.**

Leave me alone, Deadpool begged silently.

With bites on his neck, and hands working his aching erection, Spider-Man brought him gasping over the edge. He picked up the pace, holding firm to Deadpool’s hips while he found his own release, and then held him up while he pulled out without further ceremony.

Deadpool’s hips ached for just a few moments from the harsh angle, and then his healing factor took care of that. He was a bit in shock, feeling relaxed and languid from the afterglow.

From a hidden pocket, Spider-Man pulled out a small plastic bag, into which he tucked the used condom.

“Adding me to your collection, sweetums?” Deadpool laughed. Feeling self-conscious, he fixed his own pants and bent to retrieve his things from the ground.

Spider-Man snorted. “Just call me paranoid.”

“Okay, you’re paranoid.” Deadpool grinned.

Spider-Man rolled his eyes so hard that it was plain to see even with his face covered. “Whatever.” He reached out and grabbed Deadpool’s chin, pinching lightly. “Hey. Thanks, that was kinda fun. Ten out of ten, would fuck again.”

While Wade was still waiting for his brain to start functioning again, Spider-Man flipped over the edge of the building and vanished.

“Ha ha, yeah? Well--! I’ve had better!” He stumbled to the ledge and looked down, but the web swinger had already moved on.

“Ha… ha… yeah…”

Slumping to the ground, Wade pulled his cap back on.

“Fuck.”

* * * * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @[bexorz](http://bexorz.tumblr.com/)! If you love my work and want to show your support, you can find ways how to do that on there.
> 
> Otherwise, I'd love comments too. ^^


	4. Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade's waiting for things to change. Waiting for Cable to show up and bring him a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 3,566  
> TW: Graphic descriptions of injury and death. Nightmares. Panic attacks. Dissociation.

Deadpool was in serious trouble.

He stared into the fridge at Cable’s safe house, then shut the door. Empty. He opened it again, and continued staring. Still empty. He had to get in touch with Cable.

He would suck it up. Admit he’d made a huge mistake, and beg for help. Cable had drop boxes and special phone numbers to use in case of emergency. Deadpool knew this was an emergency. The entire world was an emergency.

He’d had sex with Spider-Man.

Where was Cable’s nearest drop box? Was it that one in the park, or the one near Carnegie Hall? Fuck, it didn’t matter. He was going to put a note in all of them.

He was hungry. His stomach was churning, the boxes were arguing constantly, and he wanted a beer. Or twenty. Twenty beers as fast as he could chug them. Still wouldn’t get him drunk for more than a couple minutes, though.

Spider-Man had fucked him against a wall.

Deadpool shut the fridge door. Opened it again. Maybe that moldy Spam still had some caloric value.

  


“… accident reported in Albertson, on Northern State Parkway westbound at New Hyde Park Road…”

  


Deadpool was curled up under a section of the High Line, a garbage bag draped over his head and shoulders against the rain. Water plipped and plopped against the plastic, running down his back where the bag didn’t reach. He shivered.

Cars hissed along the road near his hidey hole. Nobody saw him, nobody cared. Why should they? This awful city was filled with so many homeless. He was just another hobo in a ubiquitous baja jacket.

White had a number of strongly worded arguments in favor of leaving the timeline as it was. One of those arguments was that Spider-Man was incredibly hot. Spider-Man he was willing to get down and dirty with Deadpool. He wasn’t turned off by the scars, or the fact that Deadpool had called himself a mercenary, or the fact that he’d found Deadpool sleeping in a dumpster once. He wanted to _team up_ with him. Thought he was useful!

The rest of him knew that this was all _wrong_ and it had to be fixed, but he wasn’t yet desperate enough to seek out Tony Stark.

Spider-Man had been inside him. They’d had sex. His first time with Spider-Man had been hard and fast against a cold brick wall.

Guilt was both a motivator and an inhibitor, and Deadpool was guilty as hell. There was no way that he could go to Tony with the vivid memory of blasting a hole in Tony’s forehead still clear in his mind.

A truck drove by, too close to the curb. The huge spray of water that followed drenched Deadpool down to the skin. He didn’t get up and leave.

He’d always pictured his first time with Peter would be in Peter’s bed. In the apartment they’d shared for two years. Warm and cozy, maybe a little Marvin Gaye playing in the background. Kissing and cuddling for hours. Peter’s mouth on his. His hands in Peter’s hair.

He shivered harder. He deserved to sit there and shiver in the cold.

The High Line gardens had lost funding sometime after the northern half had been destroyed in a battle. Nobody had wanted to pay to fix it. The place had been abandoned by the city, forgotten by tourists. It felt appropriate to hide there. It was just like him.

He felt guilty for having sex with Spider-Man.

When was Nate going to reply to his messages? Shouldn’t he have by now? How long had it been?

  


“… M Train public transit services not operating between Metropolitan Ave. and Myrtle-Wyckoff Avenue…”

  


It felt like he had betrayed the real Peter. There was plenty of evidence that he had. Peter had confessed his feelings—albeit drunkenly—and he’d left Peter, and Peter had died.

Two years living together, becoming friends, both hoping and fearing for his feelings to be returned. When they finally were, he’d thrown them right back in Peter’s face. And Peter had died.

"Wade?"

Deadpool blinked. He was sitting on the sidewalk, legs folded under him, the taste of leather in his mouth. He had been chewing on one of his gloves. Shit.

He turned to address the woman who had spoken to him. "Uh."

"Marie."

"Right."

"Are you okay? When's the last time you ate?"

He didn't have an answer for either of those questions.

  


“… disabled truck in the Bronx on the Cross Bronx Expressway on I-95 Northbound after Webster Ave, stopped traffic back to the George Washington Bridge, delay of 17 minutes…”

  


Wade had fought hard to gain not only self respect, but Peter’s respect. Barely knowing the new Peter at all, he’d had sex with him. It had been easy. Hardly any effort at all. Spider-Man had come to _him_.

White used this as evidence that it was a better world for him. Yellow would counter that a fascist regime ruled by shadow corporations was no kind of “better”, no matter how readily available sex with Spider-Man was.

“Sir. Sir. Move along. You can’t sleep here.”

Wade frowned at the street cop who was poking him with his billy club. He stood up and bravely resisted the overwhelming urge to grab the stick and whack the cop over the head with it. “Get off me with your little stick. I wasn’t sleeping, I was resting my eyes!”

“This is private property. I’m giving you one warning.”

Wade slapped his hands to his face. “Oh no, I’ve been warned! I’m scared, mommy! Save me Spider-Man!”

“All right, chucklehead, that’s enough. Hands behind your back. _Now_.”

“EEK!” Deadpool shrieked. His combat switch flipped. So much for resisting the urge.

Moments later, the cop was on the ground with a concussion, and Deadpool was running down the street screaming about skrulls, waving the billy club in the air.

  


“… for the M.T.A., New Haven Line delays up to 15 minutes at Stratford, delay of 15 minutes…”

  


Wade felt used.

He had a bag of hot dogs in his hand. Blood on his gloves. He had no idea where it had come from. It could be his own. He hoped it was his own. The alternative was awful to think about, because he didn’t remember how he’d gotten the hot dogs.

It was a betrayal of Peter’s memory, having sex with Spider-Man.

The thought that he could’ve killed someone for some fucking hot dogs put him off his appetite. The ketchup was an accusation. The meat looked phallic.

Would it have been different if they’d been in a bed? If they’d both had their masks off? Deadpool had been completely exposed, but he’d not seen Spidey’s expression at all.

Spider-Man had used him like a sex toy.

He needed a new mask.

  


“… vehicle on fire in West Orange on I-280 westbound, delay of 22 minutes…”

  


The tv had no sound, but the closed captioning was on. Wade wasn’t really paying attention. He stared at the news program through the store window, hands and face smushed against it. The words blurred across his vision. Something about Oscorp.

“Bristle head,” he muttered to himself.

Pedestrians were either bumping into him as they passed, or hurrying on quickly once they smelled him.

“I don’t know whether I want to punch him in the face or wash some dishes.” Wade giggled.

  


“… incident cleared in Bronx on I-87 Southbound after a fight between vigilantes left debris on the highway, stop and go traffic back to 179th Street, delay of 3 minutes…”

  


The worst thing was that he no longer had any pictures of Spidey’s face. Technology had stuck with mini USB, and his cell phone used micro USB. He’d given his charger cable to a desperate civilian before Spidey had died. Now his phone, like Spidey, was dead and gone forever, and that’s where his pictures of Spidey’s face had been.

Wade, angry, had shot his phone into a million pieces. Then he’d put the .22 to his own head. One benefit to having lost his mask was that there were no annoying bullet holes left over.

Pulling out of the memory of waking up on the shore of the Hudson afterwards, Wade heard Marie talking to her cat.

Marie was nice. She had helped him find the good places to sleep. She had helped him by pointing out the best soup kitchens, and which days they were open. Not that Wade was doing very well with the passage of time.

There were lots of homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Oscorp and Roxxon were _so_ altruistic, donating lots of money to care for the city’s homeless population. Which their control of the government had put on the streets in the first place, but who was counting?

“Mm, you like that, Chuck? I got that special for ya.” Marie looked happy in that moment, enjoying sharing a little bit of canned tuna with the furry bastard.

Wade grinned. “Chuckie, Chuck, Chuckles, Charlie-poo,” he said.

Marie had named her cat Charles. Because of course she had.

Sunlight glinted in the silver bangs falling across her forehead, and Wade was caught in the sparkle. She was the only beautiful thing he’d found so far in this world.

  


“… accident, two lanes blocked in NYC on FDR Drive southbound at 71st St, stop and go traffic back to Triboro Bridge…”

  


Had it been two weeks?

Wade stared into his wallet, eyes stuck on Spidey’s masked face in the only physical photo he had of the two of them. He ran his thumb over the photo, feeling an empty ache in his chest. The grief and loss would overwhelm him if he let them. Maybe they already were and he was incapable of recognizing it.

During the time he’d been there, he’d rested where and when he could, during the nights that he didn’t spend wandering the city aimlessly. He’d eaten what he could steal or buy with pocket change tossed at him by altruistic pedestrians. He’d left multiple notes in all of Cable’s drop boxes, and had called all his phone numbers.

He was tired of waiting. He was tired of fighting White’s constant nagging. He was tired of being awake all the time, but he couldn’t sleep because he was plagued by anxiety and nightmares.

He missed Peter.

The only remotely good thing that had happened during the time since Spider-Man had fucked him against a wall was making friends with Marie.

It was difficult for him to not call her _Rogue_. From what he’d been able to learn of the X-Men in this world, it was best not to remind her of what she’d lost.

When he fixed the timeline, things would be better for her. He’d make sure of it.

Otherwise, he couldn’t get invested any more than he already was. This was all going to change. It was best not to make attachments.

He’d called her “ma cher” once on accident. She’d done a bad job hiding her tears under her hair. She hadn’t spoken to him for two days after that.

  


“… left lane blocked in Manhattan on New York route-9A Northbound after 96th St, stopped traffic back to 79th St, delay of 9 minutes…”

  


Actual sleep caught up to Deadpool during one of his vigils at Cable’s safe house.

It was raining again. He was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall where a leak was slowly dripping water down the bubbling wallpaper.

A crappy little battery-powered radio he’d found warbled at him from its shitty speakers. All he could get on it was shortwave traffic reports, but even that was better than nothing. Silence allowed him too much headspace to think about things he didn’t want to think about.

While he listened to the announcer drone on about accident after accident across the city, the combination of repetitive stimuli eventually lulled him into unconsciousness. The half empty beer slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, the liquid seeping into the carpet.

  


_“…All inbound traffic blocked from entering Midtown. Ongoing hostilities have forced all civilians to evacuate…”_

_The radio was describing something that Wade thought was familiar._

_“…heroes fighting other heroes…”_

_Wade blinked as he saw a familiar face in front of him. Big black and white eyes stared at him._

_It was Peter. But he was in his old outfit. Peter’s mask stretched around his mouth where he was grinning, and he leaned in to give Wade a quick kiss through their masks._

_“Later,” he said, enthusiastic as he dashed across the street towards a ruined building._

_Surrounded by crowds of shouting, pushing bodies, all frantic to escape, Wade stood and watched the love of his life disappear into the darkness._

_He stood and watched Peter dashing in and out, pushing people to safety._

_He stood and watched as Peter used his own body as a brace to hold the building up, while it gradually crumbled around him._

_He stood and watched as Peter began to lose strength, every inch of him shaking, as he was forced to his knees under the weight of the structure inexorably bearing down on him._

_He stood and watched as Peter grabbed a little girl and tossed her out at Wade’s feet._

_He stood and watched as Peter shouted to him for help. As Peter pulled off his mask. As Peter begged Wade to pull him free. As more debris shuddered down around them._

_He stood and watched as the little girl yanked on his arm, crying._

_He stood and watched as Tony and Steve rushed in to help. As he shot them in the face._

_He stood and watched as Peter screamed, blood and tears streaming down his face._

_He stood and watched as the building crushed the life out of Peter, inch by inch._

  


Wade woke with a scream. Limbs flailing, he tumbled off the couch, struggling for breath as he twitched on the floor. He clawed at his throat, desperate for oxygen that he wasn’t getting. His fumbling fingers finally grasped the zipper of his hoodie and he jerked it open. It had rucked up around his neck while he slept, pressing tight on his windpipe. He still couldn’t breathe.

Trying to stand was a bad idea. The room spun around him and he fell to his knees again, retching up the rancid contents of his stomach. Even once his gut was empty, he continued to dry heave, locked in the horror of the nightmare memory. The frightened eyes, the bloody face, the screaming and the crying that he just _watched_ happen.

Spidey was dead. _Spidey was dead._ He’d just stood by while the building fell down on top of him. Iron Man and Captain America, them and their stupid war, even though the war was _their_ fault, and the war was what had killed Spider-Man, Deadpool hadn’t done enough to save him. He’d known Spider-Man was going to die. Cable had warned him. He should’ve stayed with Spidey. _That_ would’ve been the best way to protect him.

Spidey was dead. Crushed under the building while Deadpool watched. His broken, bloody body hardly recognizable when it had been pulled from the rubble. Everything Deadpool loved and wanted, gone. Everything his baby boy was to him, gone. His fault.

Deadpool clenched his hands into fists and began beating them against the sides of his head. “Dead, dead, my fault, dead dead.” It didn’t help. Didn’t help the panic and the rage boiling in his chest, threatening to spill over into something worse.

And where was Cable, dammit??!

**Breathe, idiot. Spidey is still here.**

_Go find him. Find Spider-Man._

**What we did worked. Find him.**

Yes. That was what he had to do. Find Spidey. The edge of panic wasn’t receding, even though he was able to breathe again, bit by bit. As long as he focused on breathing through his mouth. As long as he focused on the need to find the man he—

The carpet spun again as he pushed himself to his feet, wiping vomit from the corner of his mouth and his chin with the back of his hand. The mess on the floor he couldn’t give a damn about. He tossed a moldy old blanket on top of it and left it at that. If Nate got mad at the mess Deadpool had left in his safe house, it was only his own stupid fault for taking too long responding to Deadpool’s messages.

Deadpool hit the streets. It was raining, late in the evening. He hadn’t slept for any real length of time at all before the nightmare had gripped him and shaken him like a dog with a dead rabbit. At least it had been enough to give him a burst of energy, even if it was all from adrenaline and anxiety. The tingling panic and uncertainty still rippled through his veins, but at tolerable levels. It left him only frantic to find Spidey, and not emotionally debilitated. 

After everything he’d done, everything he’d seen and been through, he needed to prove to himself that Spidey was alive. That the nightmare was a lie. It wasn’t true. Spider-Man had to be alive.

Deadpool pulled his hood up over his head, and between that and his NY baseball cap it kept his head and face mostly dry. The rest of him was getting wetter with every block he traveled, but he didn't care. The other pedestrians had umbrellas or were rushing to their destinations as usual. They didn't care about him, except when he shoved them aside in his haste.

**Sure does rain a lot here.**

_It’s a metaphor._

Would Spider-Man even be out in this weather? Would he be web swinging, or was he one of the people whose faces were obscured by their umbrellas? Where did he even live? Wade had to find him. No matter how long it took, even if he only got a glimpse of him swinging across the sky, he had to find him. Had to know he was okay. 

It was the single most overwhelming thought in his head. 

As each street he traveled brought him no success, Wade started to feel that panic again. Had he hallucinated everything? Had it all been a delusion that he’d put form to and believed? Had something happened to Spider-Man? Where was Spidey?

Spidey had to be ok. He _had_ to be. 

He started running. People shouted at him for running on the sidewalk, splashing through puddles and drenching everyone he passed, but he didn’t care. He had to find Spider-Man, had to know he was safe. Had to know that all this misery wasn’t for nothing. 

As he ran, he scanned the skyline, watching for the red and black streak of Spider-Man’s passage. For any telltale sign of leftover webbing dangling from the corner of buildings. 

Then he was there. This was the block, this was the building from his nightmare. It was the same building that had crushed Spider-Man to death while he watched. He staggered, unable to keep his feet as the whole dream flashed through his mind again. He had to steady himself against the side of a lamp post, clutching his chest as he heaved great lungfulls of air. That’s when he saw him across the street.

Peter.

Walking the sidewalk like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn't a ghost. He was huddled in a hoodie underneath a leather jacket, most of his face obscured behind the hood, but Wade would recognize that profile anywhere. He would know those eyes, those lips. It was _Peter._

Dizzy with a mix of relief and distress, needing to close the distance between them, Wade tried to call out. The words wouldn’t come; they lodged in his throat, which felt swollen and tight. Peter was turning a corner away from him, heading off into another direction.

No, no no no. Wade had to catch up to him. He could not let him get away. This was where it had happened. He had to make sure that Peter was alive, that was real and not another hallucination. He had to make sure Peter was safe. He had to apologize for leaving him. For letting him get hurt. For not doing more. For telling him he didn't need him. 

He did. Deadpool needed him so bad. 

Without thinking, he leapt into the street, causing a Red Bull delivery truck to slam on the brakes. Wade kept going, not noticing the curses thrown at him out the driver’s window. Blinded to everything but the need to catch up to his baby. Didn't Peter hear him calling out?

From out of nowhere, sight blocked by the truck, a Cadillac Escalade came roaring down the street, just as Wade passed into its lane. Without time to even register what was happening, it slammed into him.

Everything was pain and noise—was that him screaming?—and the world spinning.

Then everything was dark and silence.

  


“…vehicles slowing to look at accident on 5th Ave between 44th and 43rd. Ambulance and police have been called to the scene, as the victim appears armed with two Japanese-style swords and could possibly be a vigilante…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok normally when authors say they're sorry it's just like a joke. This, I actually am sorry for. This chapter was supposed to have some fun stuff in it, but... that didn't happen.
> 
> Sci and I worked on this chapter a lot to make sure that the theme and emotions flowed well. The dissociative montage, I think, works very well to indicate both Wade's mental state and the passage of time.
> 
> Next chapter will have more dissociation, but also lots of sex (finally) to make up for all the angst. This WILL get better, but the entire fic follows the 5 stages of grief so, like, there are worse ones coming up. Right now we're ramping up into serious Denial.


	5. Thai Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade regains consciousness, and the day ends a lot different than it started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 5,998  
> Warnings: None? I think?

No dreams bothered Wade while he was knocked out, which was fantastic. For once, he didn’t want to wake up. The waking world was just as awful a place these days as the world of nightmares. It was filled with pain, disappointment, and bad smells. Granted, the bad smells were most often his own fault, but he could still object to them if he wanted to.

He did not appreciate the waking world at all, but as his body healed he was dragged back to it whether he wanted it or not. In this case, he did not; everything hurt a lot.

“Rise and shine, Evel Knievel.”

Wade blinked. Big, dark eyes stared down at him. “Dad?”

“You sure are some kind of idiot.”

Groaning, Wade tried to sit up, but painful alarm bells rang all over his body. He gasped and flopped back down into the blankets. Blankets? That meant he was lying on a bed. Still in his clothes, but they were sticking to him funny, as if they were soaked in congealed blood. They probably were.

All of his injuries made themselves known the more he returned to awareness. Smashed pelvis, broken ribs, plenty of organ damage. Classic hit-by-a-large-vehicle symptoms. His healing factor was being a slow piece of shit. The whole “barely eating” thing he’d been doing lately was responsible for that, he suspected.

“Yeah, it’s my superpower,” he said. Why was he in a bed with Spider-Man in the room?

**Don’t let him get us down, we’ve committed worse crimes than being an idiot.**

_Oh boy have you ever._

**Getting hit by a car doesn’t even start to even up the karmic balance.**

What the hell was Yellow talking about? Wade didn’t believe in karma.

**Like hell we don’t.**

Spider-Man leaned back and folded his arms. The muscles of his arms, wrapped in a caress by the black lines of his suit, made him look sexy all over again. “Uh-huh. So, do you regularly make a habit out of jumping into traffic? This is the second time I’ve seen you do it since we met.”

Spider-Man. It was Spidey, alive and in one piece. Wade could have cried. Sure, there was a stinging in his eyes, but he wasn’t crying. His eyes were just watering from the agony of his internal injuries. That was a perfectly acceptable explanation. The clenching in his chest was just leftover from the crushing. It was in no way caused by the overwhelming emotions surging through him.

“Spidey, what… what happened?” he asked, his throat tight again. He stared up at Spider-Man, those dark eyes unfathomable, giving him no clues to what the man was thinking. “Did anybody get the number of the bus that hit me?”

Spider-Man grunted and bent over him. He pressed a thumb into Wade’s brow, pulling his eyelid open and shining a penlight into first one eye, then the other. It felt real, the touch on his face, which meant this wasn’t a hallucination. The concern for Wade’s well being that Spider-Man was showing right then was wonderful, and even a little touch was more than welcome. It had been so long since he’d been touched kindly, Wade had started to forget what it was like.

“It wasn’t a bus. It was an Escalade,” Spider-Man said, straightening back up. He clicked the penlight off and stuck it into a small compartment on his hip. “You’re lucky I was in the area.”

Wade tried to remember. He’d been rushing through the streets, looking for Spider-Man. He’d had a nightmare. Blood, pain, screaming, and Spider-Man getting crushed to death. It had been real and horrible enough to drive him to make sure that it wasn’t true. _That_ was why he hated sleeping. Sleep opened the way to dreams, and his dreams usually sucked. At least while he was awake he didn’t have to watch Spidey dying over and over again.

“Yeah. Lucky,” he said. “Lucky as a black cat walking under a ladder.” Peter. He’d seen _Peter_ walking on the other side of the street, and hadn’t seen Spider-Man at all. There was no way he could tell him that that was why he’d been eager to cross the street. He wasn’t supposed to know what Spider-Man looked like under the mask.

_Besides, this guy would have no idea why you’d jump into traffic for him._

**Probably best if we keep that detail to ourselves.**

With a groan, Wade sat up, testing the structural integrity of his hips. When they twinged, and he heard and felt bone grinding against bone, he had to lie back down again. For the moment he was stuck with Spider-Man and his thoughts. Those thoughts were stuck on the subject of _why_ he was here, in what was clearly some kind of cheap hotel room, with Spider-Man. Spider-Man was a mercenary in this timeline, not a hero. Yet when the accident had happened nearby, he’d changed into costume and taken Wade away from the scene and brought him here.

To a hotel room.

That he would’ve had to _pay for_.

“Wait a second.” Wade pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Nobody in the biz does a damn thing for free. What did you save me for? Why are we in a hotel? You could’ve let the cops haul my ass away.”

Spider-Man let out a snort, and Wade thought he saw him smirking under his mask. “Mm, well, I sure as shit wasn’t taking you home with me. Also, it’s such a _nice_ ass, it would be too bad if they locked it up.”

Wade felt naked without a mask, his expressions bare for Spider-Man to see. He _desperately_ needed to replace his mask. He was sure that Spidey could see every nuance of emotion crossing his face. Discomfort, skepticism, anticipation, they were all there.

“It _would_ be too bad, wouldn’t it? My ass happens to be my nicest feature,” Wade said with a forced grin. He waggled his eyebrows and went to fold his hands behind his head, but that was painful as shit. “Ow, my ribs.”

Spider-Man walked across the room, casually hopping onto the wall.“Yes, your ribs. I could actually see a couple of them when I first brought you here. Good to see they’re back in your chest now.” His steps carried him straight up to the ceiling, where he hung upside down while talking like it was the most casual thing in the world to him. Which, Wade knew it was.

Wade winced as he tried again to sit up. He had more success this time, feeling fewer crippling pains everywhere, so he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You could? I bet you snuck a peek at the rest of my body too!”

Chuckling, Spider-Man stepped towards him, still on the ceiling. Wade tried to tilt his head to look at him right side up, but it hurt his neck too much.

Peeling himself off the bed, Wade caught a whiff of unpleasantness in his nose. What was that _smell_? Was that blood all over the bed? Yes, it was. He really did _not_ envy the cleaning staff.

“Speaking of your body,” Spider-Man said, “how is it? You were pretty fucked up when I dragged you in here, and you’ve been out cold for five hours. You’ve been bleeding most of that time, but I saw you heal a lot faster when you jumped off that building.”

With a cough, Wade pounded a fist on his chest. “Well, uh, my healing factor might be acting a little sluggish right now. I’m not exactly sure when’s the last time I, uh, ate something.”

“Your caloric intake affects your healing factor?” Spidey rubbed his chin. “You on drugs, too, by any chance?”

“Uh. No? I don’t... think so. But I’ve got, uh, some memory issues, too, so...” Wade stared at him, blinking, feeling a moment of awkwardness wash over him. That question had significance to it, but he couldn’t wrap his head around what sort of significance yet.

Spider-Man dropped to the floor suddenly. “How do you like Thai food?”

Wade slapped his hands to his mouth. “I _love_ Thai food!”

“Stay here. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

**He’s buying us Thai food!**

_We love Thai food._

**He’s buying us _Thai food_!**

“Gasp! You’re buying me Thai food?”

Spider-Man snorted as he turned for the door. “Don’t make a _thing_ out of it, all right?”

With a cough to clear his throat, and trying to dampen his enthusiasm somewhat, Wade nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s not a thing. Got it. Can you bring me some kuai-tiao phat khi mao?”

“What?”

“Kuai-tiao phat khi mao!”

“I’m... not gonna even try to pronounce that.”

Wade sighed melodramatically and rolled his eyes. “Oh for--just ask for drunken noodles.”

Spider-Man cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. I’ll be back.”

———

While waiting for Spider-Man to come back with food--

**Thai food! Thai food!**

_So hungry._

\--he took the opportunity to use the bathroom and take a quick shower to ease the ache in his body. He was still hurting, and still had some awful sores leftover from his injuries. The water washing down the drain wasn’t just red from old blood. There was still fresh stuff oozing out of him.

 _That_ hadn’t happened in forever. He was in bad shape. He even had a hard time staying on his feet, and ended up clinging to the safety bar, knees shaking under him as he was pounded by the shower spray. Feeling weak and pathetic was never something that he was very good at, and it dragged his mood down even further.

He’d finally put his filthy clothes back on, when he heard the door open. There was Spidey once more, carrying two large brown paper bags that smelled _fantastic_.

From the smell alone, Wade’s gut clenched and his stomach grumbled.

“I can hear that,” Spidey said.

“I’m very happy for you and your super hearing?” Wade said. He watched Spidey’s backside while he took the bags over to the hotel room’s small square table and unloaded the contents.

Round, white to-go containers with silver lids just kept coming out of the bags. It was a veritable feast, and the sight and smell of it all made Wade’s mouth water like Pavlov’s bitch. There was more than enough for two people. More than enough for _four_ people, even. Four normal people, anyway. Wade knew that Peter could pack almost as much away as he could, so they’d surely have no trouble finishing all that off. 

It was so much food. _So much food_.

“There’s your drunken noodles,” Spider-Man said, shoving one of the containers off to the side. “I got some of everything. Sit down and eat.”

Slumping into one of the chairs, Spider-Man retrieved a packet of plastic cutlery and ripped it open. Looking over the containers, he chose one that had some sort of chicken and rice dish in it, and pulled it towards himself.

Uncertain, Wade stood there watching Spidey, until Spidey pulled up the bottom of his mask and tucked it over his nose. There was stubble on his chin, but it was a mouth and chin that Wade still knew very well. His heart clenched in his chest.

Spider-Man stopped in middle of peeling the lid off his food and looked up at Wade. “You _are_ hungry, right? You gonna fuckin’ eat, or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m eating, I’m eating.” Wade sat down and took the other wrapped package with plastic knife and fork, trying not to stare. “No chopsticks?”

“Nope.”

“You savage.”

Spider-Man ignored the comment.

Tearing into his container, Wade inhaled the rich smell of the food. He tucked into it with zero hesitation, shoveling the noodles in faster than he could chew them. There was nothing like a little mild starvation to add seasoning to your dinner, and it was the best kuai-tiao phat khi mao he’d ever tasted.

This much food must have cost a pretty penny. Not to mention the price of the hotel room. Despite the other factors involved, Wade couldn’t help but feel like he was being pampered. Spidey had rescued him from the accident, was worried about his healing factor, and had bought him a whole _pile_ of food when he’d said he was hungry. Now they were sitting there eating. Together.

**This feels like a romcom.**

_I bet it’s a trap._

**Why would it be a trap? You heard him, he was watching us for hours. He could’ve done something suspicious in that time and he didn’t.**

_I still smell a trap, but whatever it is it’s worth it for this food._

**It’s not a trap, it’s a weird romcom.**

_I’m not going to argue with you about this._

“Mmgh, this is _so good_ ,” Wade said around a mouthful of beef.

Eating a lot more slowly than Wade was, Spider-Man did not have his mouth full at that moment. “It’s okay.”

“All right, maybe it’s because I skipped breakfast, but this kaeng kari is fantastic.” Shoving another forkful into his mouth, Wade grinned.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Spider-Man’s tone was neutral, but his words made Wade feel all warm and fuzzy. “This pad thai could be better.”

“Oh, oh, can I try some of that?”

Spider-Man shrugged and pushed the container over to him. Wade went at it with gusto. After filling his belly, he was feeling _so_ much better. With the calories from the food, his body was healing itself right up, and the food tasted so good he didn’t mind the last few painful pops and snaps as his injuries finished knitting themselves together.

“So, maybe it’s just me,” Wade said, poking at the dish in front of him to pull the mushrooms out, “but we’re eating dinner together.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you paid for a hotel room.”

Spidey said nothing.

“ _And_ you have spent hours waiting for me to heal.”

“Your point?”

“Is this a ‘wine, dine, sixty-nine’ kind of situation here?” Wade felt odd talking to Spider-Man’s big black eyes, but there wasn’t much of an option. “You never answered my question earlier.”

Spider-Man leaned back in his seat and tossed his fork onto the table. “It would be a waste of my time to rescue your ass and not make sure you were okay.”

He wanted to make sure Wade was okay. Wade’s brain may have fried a little bit hearing that. He swallowed.

“Are you just trying to get into my pants again?” Wade didn’t want to, but he had to ask.

Spider-Man pulled out a toothpick and started poking at his gums. “While I _am_ usually of the mindset of ‘I see, I want, I take’, it did occur to me that having someone with your particular talent for survival in my debt would be useful. For something other than sexual gratification, mind you. I do expect you to owe me a favor later.”

He flicked the toothpick across the room. Then he leaned across the table and poked Wade in the nose with a precise finger, startling him into a little squeak. “However,” he said, “if you’d like another taste of spider, that is certainly an option.” He stroked Wade’s face, thumb teasing over Wade’s upper lip, making him shiver.

**Holy shit that’s hot.**

_More sex! This is the best timeline ever!_

**He’s not even turned off by our nasty face.**

_How many daydreams are coming true here?_

Wade was feeling conflicted again. The last time, Spidey had… It had been satisfying on a physical level, but...

_For fuck sake, give it a chance already._

**I’m on board with him on this, actually. What else are we gonna do while we’re waiting for Cable?**

That was absolutely a fair point. The counter-arguments seemed to have gone right out of his head while Spidey was gently touching his face. Not to mention, Spidey had gone far out of his way to help Wade.

Licking his lips, and getting a little taste of Spider-Man’s glove in the process, Wade said, “Then just call me Spiders Georg, baby.”

“Spiders who?”

Wade blinked. “You know, the meme? Spiders Georg, eats ten thousand spiders a day? Is an outlier and should not have been counted?”

“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Gasping, Wade slapped a hand to his forehead. “What is the state of the world, when Spider-Man doesn’t know the Spiders Georg meme! Did I erase it from existence? Oh god, what have I done!”

“You’re weird.”

Wade cleared his throat and waved a finger in Spider-Man’s face. “I’ll have you know that everything I say makes _perfect_ sense. You simply lack the appropriate context.”

Spider-Man shoved his chair back and stood up, crossing around to stand next to Wade. He yanked Wade’s chair away from the table, and pressed a hand to his chest. “Settle down. I like weird.” He grinned, lower half of his face still visible with his mask pulled up from eating.

“Then you’re in luck, Spidey, I’m just what the doctor ordered! Need your tonsils examined? Need a proctor exam? Need obscure internet jokes? I am fully qualified in all these areas, and you are sure to enjoy my application of technique.”

**Ugh, at least he already said he likes weird.**

In a surreal moment, Spider-Man stepped forward and spread his thighs a little to straddle Wade’s knees and lean against him. While Wade tried not to gape, he ran his hands over Wade’s shoulders, massaging his strong fingers into the muscles at the base of Wade’s neck.

“Oh my f--” Wade nearly swallowed his tongue, but he managed to just swallow the lump in his throat instead. Maybe he could redirect the conversation back to that vague favor Spidey had mentioned. “Well, uh… um… You said something about a… a favor you wanted?”

_Are you rejecting his advances right now?_

**Nothing wrong with exploring options!**

“In the future, sometime, yes. I’ll think of what it is eventually.” Spider-Man ran his hands over Wade’s collarbone, smoothing fingers over the fabric of his hoodie.

“And it’s not sex?”

“I don’t want you to pay me back with sex,” Spider-Man said. He withdrew and folded his arms, the set of his shoulders switching from seductive to irritated. “If I only wanted sex, I could just go buy some.”

_Fuck._

**Damn boy.**

“Consider it an unspecified future favor you owe me. And I _will_ collect, no matter what else happens between now and then,” Spider-Man continued. “I’m offering sex because I find you interesting.”

There was a problem with that. Wade didn’t want Spider-Man to find him interesting. He wanted Spider-Man to love him. Like he had before. Wade wanted Peter. Peter loved him. Peter was _in love_ with him.

**This is Peter.**

_He could love you again. He’s literally the same person._

“Well yes, technically speaking,” Wade said.

“What?” Spider-Man asked.

There he was, right there. New suit, new world, but it was still Spider-Man. The Spider-Man he’d known still had to be in there somewhere. All those arguments about nature versus nurture boiled down to it being a mix of factors, right? Or some bullshit like that. Point being, at the core of this person there had to be something of the man he knew. No matter what had become of him in the last ten years.

“Never mind.” Wade got to his feet and paced across the room anxiously. “You’re saying that you want _me_ … no expectations, no strings attached? And you’re… you’re not going through a ‘phase’,” Wade made air quotes with his fingers, “or anything?”

This made Spider-Man laugh outright. It was a familiar laugh, but also vaguely unnerving because it had an element of unfamiliarity to it as well. “I wouldn’t say I don’t have expectations, but no, I’m not going through a _phase_ ,” he said, making accompanying finger quotes in the air. “Whatever the hell gave you that idea?”

“You’re not gonna fuck my ugly ass and decide it was a bad idea?”

“Interesting choice of words.” Spider-Man grabbed him by the elbow to stop the pacing, and lowered his voice. “But no. I’ve already done that once, and I want more.”

_Yes yes yes._

**There are in fact a lot of possibilities here.**

_He wants you. He specifically wants you._

**Spending time with him is better than listening to traffic reports for hours on end.**

_Give up, give in, give up, give in._

It took effort not to tell the boxes to shut up out loud, because he didn’t want to offend or startle Spider-Man while he was so close. So close that Wade could smell him, smell Peter underneath the costume, and he smelled… like home.

“Yes,” he said, staring into those black eyes.

“All right,” Spider-Man said, releasing Wade’s arm and backing away a few steps. “Then strip.”

Wade blinked at the blunt command. “What?”

“You heard me. Your clothes, costume, all of it,” Spider-Man said, waving a hand, gesturing at him. “They’re filthy. They’re soaked in blood.”

That was absolutely true, but Wade was all of a sudden feeling self conscious about getting naked.

_Are you kidding me?_

**How are we supposed to do the sex with all our clothes on?**

While Wade began to argue with the boxes, Spider-Man put a hand on his chest and shoved him back against the wall. To Wade’s shock, Spidey claimed Wade’s mouth in a deep kiss, making Wade’s knees go weak and drawing a quiet moan from him. This was Spidey. _Kissing him_. It was a real kiss, like he hadn’t gotten before when the mask had still been down.

“You wanna play?” Spider-Man said, breath hot against Wade’s ear.

Wade shuddered, hands moving automatically to Spider-Man’s hips. “G-god yes.” Heat blossomed in his chest, spreading through his limbs.

“Then these are my rules,” Spider-Man said. “If you don’t like it, you can leave. But if you’re DTF, you’ll get out of that outfit, and you’ll get in the shower.”

The tone in Spider-Man’s voice touched on something in Wade that made him a little angry, despite how hot he felt just from the web swinger’s proximity. He swallowed and frowned. “You gonna wash me like a child, too?”

Spider-Man ran a hand down Wade’s chest. “If you’re still having trouble after your injuries, yeah. I promise, I take _good_ care of my guests.” Trailing his fingers further, he teased them lightly over the fabric covering Wade’s crotch.

“W-well good thing for you, I already took a shower while you were gone,” Wade said, feeling his whole body quiver.

“Good thing,” Spider-Man agreed, rubbing his lower lip against Wade’s. “But maybe we’ll just make sure you’ve done a thorough job.”

“So, this place come with a free wet bar? Continental breakfast? Morning blowjob?” Wade was just trying to keep talking so that he wouldn’t melt into a puddle. He felt electric sparks run through him with Spidey’s touch.

**Not literal ones, of course.**

_I wonder if he’s into that?_

**Hopefully not.**

“I don’t know what they have for breakfast,” Spider-Man said. “But no morning blowjob. Neither of us will be here in the morning.” He leaned forward and licked across Wade’s lips.

Wade couldn’t remember if there was something he was forgetting. “Any other, uh… conditions?” He swallowed. “Before I get all, y’know, naked and vulnerable and stuff.”

Spidey mouthed at Wade’s jaw. “I like to play rough. Rough enough to need a safe word.”

“Oh you are a kinky fucker, aren’t you.” Wade started running his hands up Spider-Man’s sides until they were slapped away.

“Yes.”

Wade swallowed and looked down at him. Webbing bondage was definitely something he’d fantasized about more than once. More than a few times. The boxes were going crazy with enthusiasm over all of this.

Spider-Man didn’t wait for Wade to say something. He slipped his hands under Wade’s jacket, under his shirt, to touch his bare chest. He caressed Wade’s mottled skin, not seeming startled or disgusted at all, which was something of a miracle in Wade’s estimation.

“I use a safe word _and_ color code. I use restraints, toys--though I don’t have any with me right now--and I’ll push you. I like pushing.” Gloved fingers pinched Wade’s nipple, making him shiver and whine. “I like big, strong men on their knees for me.”

Half of Wade’s brain was broken. “Jesus Christ. You’re a _Disney_ property.”

Spider-Man just stared at him for a moment. “There is something seriously wrong with you.”

Wade snorted. “Like I haven’t heard that before.” His face reddened, betraying some of his feelings. He hated not having a mask anymore.

Stepping back, Spider-Man withdrew his warm hands, which Wade immediately missed.

“Red is stop,” Spidey said. “Yellow is slow down. Green is go. Safe word ends the game and you go home.”

_Let’s never use the safe word._

**Too bad he couldn’t send us to our actual home that way.**

_Never ever use the safe word._

Wade thought about it. Spider-Man had not been this specific about consent back on that rooftop. Wade had not protested, but he hadn’t been asked, either.

_Everything that happened back then was shit that you explicitly said you wanted him to do to you during your babbling the night before._

**Complications aside, we did enjoy it.**

Complications, huh? Was _that_ how it was being referred to these days?

“Do you want to do this, or do we go vanilla one more time and you don’t bother me until I need that favor from you?” Spider-Man was getting impatient.

With confidence he didn’t feel, Wade said, “Well, since we’re already going fifty shades of spideypool up in here, let’s get naked!” He punched his fist in the air.

“Yeah, one last thing.”

Wade lowered his fist slowly. “Yeeesss…?”

“My mask stays on. You do not even _touch_ my mask.”

“Okie dokie Spidey baby.” Wade winked and shot him finger guns.

Spider-Man’s shoulder twitched. “And you’ll call me Spider-Man. None of this cutesy nickname shit.”

Wade threw a quick salute. “Yes sir, mister Spider-Man, sir!”

“Shut up and take your clothes off.”

———

Wade was kneeling on the bed, naked save for the sweat dripping down his body. A blindfold of shredded bedsheet covered his eyes, and his hands were bound behind him. Spider-Man had found the zip ties that Wade had taken from the evidence van, tucked away in one of his pouches. These were cinched around his wrists like bracelets, tight enough to feel their pinch, but not tight enough to break the skin. Webbing was sprayed over his arms, binding them together on top of that. The zip ties were only used for added flavor.

Spider-Man’s safe word was _astrophysics_ \--the fucking nerd--but it was the furthest from Wade’s mind at that moment. All that filled his mind was how Spider-Man’s dick felt filling him from behind, Spider-Man’s mouth sucking hickeys into his neck, and Spider-Man’s hand stroking and squeezing the ache between his legs.

Every deep thrust inside, every stretch of well-loosened muscles drew a pleasured moan from Wade’s lips. Spider-Man had good rhythm. He tilted his head back against Spider-Man’s shoulder, gasping at the air, rocking his hips back as well as he could in that position.

Spider-Man, with his free hand, slipped two fingers into Wade’s mouth and angled a thrust towards his prostate. “I can’t believe,” he said, panting, “you have almost _no_ refractory period.”

Wade suckled the fingers and whined, the muscles in his thighs quivering. Spider-Man’s skin tasted so good, and he felt so so fucking good. He’d come three times already, and Spidey just kept going, kept giving it to him. It was the best he had felt in months, it seemed.

While he’d been washing up again, outside _and_ inside as Spider-Man had instructed, Spidey had stripped the sheets with the blood stains, so they were doing this in an actual bed. He couldn’t see Spidey’s face, couldn’t wrap his arms around him bound like he was, but hearing and smelling and feeling his familiar form made him as close to happy as he’d been in a long time.

“You are going to be _so much fun_ ,” Spider-Man breathed against his ear.

He was approaching another orgasm, but with his earlier releases it was slow in coming. Spidey’s voice was helping, though, as well as the fact that he was lavishing Wade with praise.

“Like a carnival ride, going round and round, I’m-- _oof!_ ”

Spider-Man shoved him forward, pressing his face into the sheets. With a sweaty hand, he laid a solid slap on Wade’s ass. Wade jerked in surprise, gasping, muscles clenching.

“Color,” Spidey demanded, slapping him again.

“Green,” Wade gasped. His fingers twitched inside the webbing bonds.

**Do we really mean green?**

_Hell yeah, Spidey’s dick feels_ so _good._

Spider-Man slapped him once more, hard enough to make Wade give an open-mouthed cry. “Color.”

“Green!” Wade shouted into the pillow, all the tension in his body building up to another peak.

Another slap. Harder. “Color!”

“Green!” Wade sobbed.

Before Wade was tempted to cry yellow, Spidey slowed his thrusts and ran his hands up Wade’s back to caress and knead his shoulders. Then he took hold there, knocked Wade’s knees further apart, and locked his feet around Wade’s ankles.

Wade made gasping little moans into the mattress as Spider-Man rocked harder against him again, fingers digging into his skin with just the right amount of pressure. Their bodies slid together easily, slippery with sweat and lube. Wade didn’t even care that he was sweating so much that it stung some of his sores. Spidey was just making him feel phenomenal, his body humming with endorphins.

Spider-Man’s thighs smacked against the back of Wade’s, and Wade wished he could grab the sheets, but all he could do was buck back against the thrusts. He was overwhelmed by the throbbing pressure inside and the friction of the sheets against his dick.

Behind him, Spider-Man was far from quiet. Wade could tell he was enjoying this as much as Wade himself was, from all the grunts and groans. The pace picked up, and got even harder, and Wade cried out. The only thing holding him together was Spidey clinging to him, and even the little thoughts were squeezed out of his head as Spider-Man chased his own release.

The moan Spidey let out when he came was music to Wade’s ears. The thrusts slowed until they stopped, and another smack on his ass made Wade jump.

“Good boy,” Spidey said.

Wade could have just died. But he was still hard. That last round hadn’t been quite enough to get him off, and he let out a whimper and squirmed when Spider-Man pulled out of him.

The world twisted around him as Spider-Man flipped him over onto his back, and his thighs splayed as his back arched over his bound hands. Wade didn’t have much time to adjust to the new position before Spidey was kneeling between his legs. Two fingers were shoved into him, easily since his hole was still stretched out from Spidey’s dick, and Wade felt a wet tongue on his hot flesh.

A moan ripped out of him, and the muscles across his abdomen rippled as his hips jerked with the sensation. Spidey didn’t waste any time finding his prostate and swallowing his cock all the way down. He was a man with a mission.

In his condition, it didn’t take long before Wade cried out and came hard down Spidey’s throat. “Magneto’s metal garter belt!” he shouted.

Coughing and sputtering noises met this reaction, and Wade tilted his head down instinctively to see what the problem was, but of course he was blindfolded and could see nothing. But Spidey slapped him on the thigh, hard.

“Ow!” Wade frowned. “What was that for?”

Spidey’s voice was all gurgly and hoarse, and that was kinda hot. He also sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “You fucker, I almost snorted jizz out my nose!”

Wade burst out laughing, rolling on his side and pressing his face into the pillow. “Sorry,” he said, still giggling, “but that’s what you get for putting a dick in your mouth.”

With a snort, Spider-Man got up, making the bed shift. “Whatever. Sit tight, I’m gonna clean you up a little.”

“Oh, yes, okay,” Wade said, listening to Spidey’s footsteps retreat towards the bathroom. “Good thing you said that, because otherwise I was considering taking a walk.” He tugged on the webbing bonds, squirming again.

When he heard Spidey return, he added, “But an undercarriage wash sounds good, too, I--ooohhgod that’s cold!” He squealed.

“You never shut up, do you?” Spider-Man asked. Despite his harsh words, his touch was gentle as he wiped at Wade’s privates and other parts of his body that had gotten filthy with their activities.

It was… almost sweet. And for once, the boxes had left him alone for a while. That felt great too.

“Why else do you think I’m ‘the merc with the mouth’?” Wade blinked as Spidey pulled the blindfold off. Spidey had already put his costume back on. Wade had been blindfolded the entire time, hadn’t seen his body at all.

In response, Spider-Man just made a noncommittal noise, before he pulled the blankets up over Wade and tucked him in. “The webbing will dissolve soon. You want a beer, Wayne? Or are you more a soda or juice after sex kinda guy?”

Wayne. Not Wade. Spider-Man called him _Wayne_.

_It’s a miracle he remembered even that much. You only told him your name once._

**It’s pretty close, all things considered.**

This wasn’t his Peter. This wasn’t the man he knew. Wade was filled with a sense of wrongness as he stared at this stranger. He stared so long that Spider-Man waved a hand in front of his face.

“Hellooo,” he said.

“Well, you almost got my name right,” Wade managed to choke out. “It’s Wade.”

“Right. Wade. Whatever. What do you want to drink?”

“Do I look like Batman?”

Spider-Man took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Who the fuck is Batman?”

No, Wade didn’t want to piss him off or make him lose patience. Even if this wasn’t his Peter, it was still better than nothing. He didn’t want Spidey to get fed up with him. “Never mind. I’ll, uh, take some orange juice.”

Giving him a long, hard look, Spider-Man finally shrugged and disappeared to go get him that something to drink.

Not his Peter. Not his world. For a while, Wade had sort of forgotten. He _wanted_ to forget. Wrapped in Peter’s smell, his voice, his touch, his strength, Wade knew he could forget again. He wanted this again.

**No matter what it costs, eh?**

_Come on. It costs nothing. He fed you and sexed you up good._

**Fair point.**

“How long did you say this webbing would last?” he shouted towards where Spidey had gone.

“Just _give_ it a minute, Wade!”

That sounded so much like the Peter he knew fussing at him. Wade sighed quietly and snuggled into the blankets, taking comfort in at least that much. Still, the nagging feeling of Peter being _wrong_ would not fade away entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY Y'ALL!! Who's happy for an update that fixes that cliffhanger, huh?? BOY I KNOW I SURE AM!
> 
> I have got to go back to my notes and figure out where I am with the plot points in this fic. It's been too long since I was actively working on it.
> 
> Mostly the next chapter or two is going to be more kinky sex with a little plot sprinkled in. :3c


	6. What Dreams Are Made Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade shares his Thai leftovers, and finally gets a new mask to replace the one blown off his face by Crossbones several chapters ago.

Leaving Peter’s company was difficult, because Wade had not had the time to settle his feelings about him. The dichotomy between all the familiar things and the unfamiliar ones put him in a strange headspace, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Would more time in his presence help ease that feeling, or would it only get worse?

**We should go back to Nate’s safe house to wait.**

_Cable’s not going to be there, you idiot._

**It’s private, we can stuff our face with the rest of this food and jerk off thinking about Murderpete.**

Wade’s steps faltered on the pavement in the dark. “Murderpete?” His fingers crinkled the grease-stained paper bag clutched in his fist. The two words didn’t even belong in the same sentence, much less mashed together like that. Peter was not a murderer. Spider-Man was not a murderer, he was a hero. _His_ Spider-Man was a hero. This Spider-Man was…

**That’s what he is.**

_Pete the murderer._

“You’re gonna make me sick,” Wade said, feeling more ill at ease than he had before. It was awful thinking of Peter like that. Even though he knew that it was true. He just wanted to pretend that everything was the way it was supposed to be.

_Denial is your friend, Deadpool._

**It’d sure be better than this constant moping.**

“I like moping,” Wade moped.

_Well that’s fucking obvious, since the author’s notes for the beginning of this chapter say you’re supposed to be happy about all the free food in your stomach and getting fucked real good, and you’re clearly not going that route._

“Oh.”

When was the last time he’d eaten so much? Making his way across the city, he allowed his thoughts to drift back. It had probably been the weekend before the big battle, when he and Nate had together consumed a huge pile of burgers, and probably ten gallons of beer.

Damn that had been a good night. Better not to think about Nate, though, since he didn’t know whether the lack of response to his message was because Nate didn’t know who the hell he was or because he was in trouble somewhere in time. Go figure, when Wade was sick of the guy’s nosy manipulative tendencies he was all up in his business, but when Wade really _needed_ him, he wasn’t around.

**Would he be more likely to remember us if he were stuck in the past?**

Wade had no idea. It wasn't high on his priorities to think about.

_Do you even have any real priorities anymore?_

Wade's priority was fixing the mess he'd made of the world. Getting home to a familiar timeline, a familiar New York, and a familiar Peter Parker. God dammit, though. How could he face _his_ Peter again after… after what he'd just done? After what he'd done twice now? He sure was never going to tell him about any of this. He couldn't.

**Just pile on the lies.**

“What else am I supposed to do?!”

Someone rammed into his shoulder, and Wade realized he'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Shut the fuck up and get out of the way, maybe? Asshole.”

“Well, fuck you too!” Wade flipped the guy off and clutched his leftovers closer to his chest as he continued on to wherever he was going.

_What's the best way to say, “I screwed up the world to save your life and had sex with your alternate self?”_

Absolutely no way. There was no way to explain what had happened without saying things aloud that Wade could barely think about in the safety of his own head.

Not that it was very safe in there, but it was private.

_Can't explain what you did after he got crushed to death, now, can you?_

No. No, he wasn't going to think about that. Not Peter's broken body and not what he'd done afterward. Those two shots still haunted his nightmares.

**Probably shouldn't have killed Tony and Steve.**

Wade squeezed his eyes shut and covered an ear with his free hand. “Nope! Not thinking about it! La la la, I can't hear you!”

Ignoring the looks shot in his direction by other pedestrians, he started singing P!nk songs to himself out loud as he padded across Midtown. It at least helped him drown out the running commentary in his head between the two boxes. Eventually the peanut gallery would shut up and he’d have some peace for a short while.

In the middle of probably his third time singing “Stupid Girls”, he realized that he'd ended up in front of Rogue's favorite spot to camp out with Charles: under a bridge near the Staten Island ferry. That had been completely unintentional, but it occurred to him that he wanted to share his leftover food with her. At least his subconscious seemed to be paying attention to the world around him. He hoped she liked Thai.

For the moment, she wasn't there. He looked up through the buildings across the water, his mind blanking completely on what he should do next. A ferry was just pulling out from the dock, water churning and splashing behind it, looking mostly empty. Mostly empty, yet the ferry went on anyway, off across to the island just to turn around and come back. Then to go on again and again.

There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but Wade couldn't be bothered to find it.

The fucking boxes started chattering at him again, but he just stared at the spot against a concrete pillar where Rogue usually sat. Feeling very tired suddenly, he shuffled over and slumped to the ground with his package of leftovers. Pulling it tight in against his chest, he leaned back in her spot and settled in to wait. While he could have gone to Nate’s safe house, he was reluctant to go back after being with Peter.

Nate could find him when he came looking for him anyway. He'd probably pop into the future and ask where he'd been two hours earlier and then show up exactly where Wade was. Wade didn't have to stay chained to the spot.

Wade sat there, minding his own business for a while, and then the next thing he knew was that someone was touching him gently on the shoulder. He sputtered and threw his hands up defensively, shouting that he knew Kung fu. Then he saw who it was, and heard her chuckling at him, and he deflated.

“Marie! You sneaky bastard.” Had he slept? Or had he just zoned out, like he'd been doing a lot lately? He couldn't say. What time was it?

“As polite as ever, sugar,” she said, crossing her arms and smirking down at him. “What are you doing here? Were you waiting for little ol’ me?”

Wade threw her a great big grin and nodded enthusiastically. “I was! Here! Happy birthday.” He shoved the greasy paper bag into her arms.

Rogue blinked, fingers instinctively clutching around the bundle. “It’s not my birthday.” Chuck meowed from his carry sack on her back. “What's this?”

“Lunch! Or dinner. Depending on what time of day it is.”

“Oh, Wade, I couldn't—”

“No, _please_ , I ate so much of it earlier I couldn't eat another damn bite.” That was a lie, but he wasn't about to let her go hungry when she didn't have to. Her cat, either. “I think Chuckie will like the chicken. Though maybe not too much of it since it's Thai and I don't know how well his little tum tums will handle the spices.”

“You brought me leftover Thai food.” Rogue still seemed in shock. “I love Thai food. I haven't had it in years.”

That made something warm flush in Wade's chest. It felt so good to brighten someone's day. How had he ever been so selfish to not realize that? “Good, then! Tan hai a-roi!”

“You speak Thai?”

Wade blinked. “Do I? Oh. I guess I do! Huh. Um, sorry the food is cold. It's not exactly fresh anymore.”

She laughed: a beautiful sound. Wade decided that if there was one good thing left in this awful version of the world, it was Rogue’s laugh and her smile. What he wouldn’t give to make Peter laugh, make Peter smile.

Damn, it had only been a few hours and he was already missing him. Even though it wasn’t really his Peter. The feeling clenched in his chest, a deep ache of longing.

“As long as it ain't crawlin’ with maggots, it’s still fresh far as I’m concerned,” Rogue said. Pulling her pack off her shoulders, she set it down as she sat next to Wade and unzipped Charles’ pouch. The cat slipped out of the bag just enough to sniff at the air. His little nose went up and down as he took whiffs of leftover Thai.

“Oh, I betcha he knows some of that is for him,” Wade said. “It’s like he’s telepathic or something!” That was funny to him, and he laughed.

Rogue shot him a look, a sudden wariness coming over her expression. “Why would you say that? He’s a cat. He can smell it.”

Right. Wade wasn’t supposed to know who Rogue was, that she would have named her cat after a powerful telepath. She had only ever introduced herself to him as “Marie”. Mutants were collectively rejected here, and Wade hadn’t gotten around to showing her his own abilities. Even though he wasn’t a mutant, it would still probably put her more at ease. He didn't need her to trust him specifically, but he wanted to be trustworthy.

_You've never been trustworthy a moment in your life._

**Never too late to try and change.**

_What's the point? This world seems to love shitty assholes._

**Yes, let's just spurn the only friend we've made for ourselves who has never wanted us for anything else.**

“Wade.”

He realized that he'd been staring at her while the boxes argued, and threw her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Rough day yesterday. Not chugging along on all cylinders, you know.”

Rogue gave him a sympathetic nod. “Yeah, I hear that.” She opened up the container of chicken and, with the plastic fork he'd left her in the bag, picked a piece out and set it on the concrete in front of the cat. “Too many days like that, I reckon.”

**We should ask her about Nate.**

_Yeah_ that's _a plan._

“No!” Wade said out loud, almost a shout. He slapped a hand over his mouth immediately, realizing his mistake.

**Well that's a first, usually we don't notice until after the fact.**

“Are ya sure you're all right?” Rogue frowned.

Wade sighed. “Darlin’, I haven't been all right since the day this happened to me.” He pointed at his bare face and all his scars and sores. “I'll never be all right again.”

Rogue chewed her lip and looked away, stroking Charles while he noshed down on the chicken like it was the only thing that existed in that moment. “If ya ever wanna talk about it… I'll listen. My life ain't been sunshine and roses neither, if the whole livin’ on the streets thing ain't enough of a giveaway.”

Managing to put the approximation of a smile on his face, Wade nodded. “I'll take you up on that sometime. Not now, I'm…” He trailed off.

“Too raw?”

_Raw in the ass maybe, ha ha._

**Well we sure were last night.**

Wade winced and put great effort in not replying to that. Instead he nodded to Rogue and shrugged. Some of the tension bled out of him when she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Even if she was wearing her gloves like always, it felt nice.

“It's okay, Sugar. Don't push it.”

“How are you such a cinnamon roll?”

“A what?”

“Too good for this world.”

“I don't understand.”

Wade sighed. “Is that another meme I destroyed?” He grumbled and propped his chin on his fists, leaning on his knees and pouting.

“At least the sun came up today. There have been times where it looked like it might not.” Rogue gave him a wry smile.

“Apocalypse. Galactus. Yeah, I know.” What he didn't say was _been there done that_. While it was certainly true, he wasn’t sure how she'd take it.

_Aw, look, the regenerating degenerate is learning how to be a people._

Shut the fuck up.

Rogue nodded at him and gave the cat another bite of chicken, then she started eating the food herself. She didn't scarf it, but ate slowly like she was savoring it. Like she wasn't sure when she was going to get the chance to eat nicely prepared food again.

_She's got powers, why doesn't she just knock over a pawn shop or something?_

**God you're an idiot. Why would she turn to that shit and spit on Professor X’s memory?**

_What, like the way we're pretending to be a model citizen in Peter's memory?_

Wade turned away from Rogue so she wouldn't see the sudden stricken look on his face and the tears in his eyes. He _hated_ his brain, he hated the obnoxious fuckers living in it, and he hated himself because of the fact that they were there in the first place.

Rogue was making happy noises as she ate, and Wade turned to look at her again. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to live in the world he'd created with his actions. To have half her friends and family dead because of him.

He didn't deserve to feel gratified for bringing her one measly meal when he'd ruined her whole life.

“Well, babe, you enjoy that.” He stood abruptly and wiped the dirt off his pants. “I gotta see a guy about a thing.”

_Running away again are we?_

**Obviously.**

“Shh!” Wade hissed.

Rogue looked up at him, plastic fork stuck out of her mouth. “Okay, Wade. Don't be a stranger. Remember there's the soup kitchen on Thursday, yeah?”

“Right, yeah, soup kitchen. Thanks for reminding me.” Wade didn't even know what day it was. He'd never make it on Thursday. “I'll see you Thursday then.” He’d try, but he probably wouldn’t.

Nodding, she smiled at him again and went back to her food. Wade left before he could start feeling anything else, but after a second thought, he spared a moment to pet Charles. He loved the soft feeling of the cat’s fur, and how the animal arched his butt up into the touch despite himself. The cat made growly noises because he was in the middle of eating, but otherwise did not protest.

A few blocks away, Wade stopped next to an old brownstone building to spend a minute bashing his head against the bricks. Stupid, stupid, he was so stupid! How could he have been so stupid to think he could make everything better by changing Peter's past so drastically? He had gotten so used to Peter talking about his uncle and his uncle’s death that he'd started rolling his eyes whenever Peter brought it up. It had never sunk in all the way how much the event had had an effect on Peter, and what sort of effect that Peter had had on the world.

How could he have been so fucking dense?

_Because you're trash. You only think about yourself and what you want._

**We have been pretty selfish.**

_You made this world, now you have to live in it._

**Can we stop literally beating ourselves up about this? Can't exactly fix the problem if we get arrested and thrown in the loony bin.**

_You're talking to yourself out loud again._

Wade finally noticed that the noise his noggin was making against the wall had turned a bit squishy. He'd smashed his forehead clean open, and blood was oozing down both his face and the bricks. People were staring. Someone was on the phone with that “calling the cops” expression on their face.

Well, it would be prudent to make quick tracks out of there before New York’s finest showed up. They would probably still be sore about his involvement in Weasel’s death.

Fuck. Weasel! Another fucking thing he was responsible for!

It was really too bad that running away from your problems wasn't an Olympic sport. Wade W. Wilson would be world champion. World champions got money and lots of ass.

_You’re getting ass. Or, Murderpete is getting yours, anyway._

**Money would be nice.**

When he felt like he'd run far enough, Wade stopped to catch his breath and assess his options. There weren't any. He had no friends, no home, and no prospects for the future. Aside from the one he was going to try to fix, but he was reliant on the whims of goddamn Nathan Dayspring Askani'Son Summers to do it.

He missed Peter. He missed him desperately. Peter would have had some encouraging words for him. Even if it was just “not now Wade I'm reading”, or a scolding to tell him to get off his mopey ass and be productive. Or even one of his annoyingly self righteous hero speeches. Wade would give anything to hear one of Peter's hero speeches right then. What he was stuck with instead were the hateful boxes, and the lingering memory of the alternate Peter calling him _Wayne_.

As if he were fucking Batman.

 _Like, as if you were fucking Batman, or_ fucking _Batman?_

**I wouldn’t say that Batman is our type. He’s too stiff.**

_As long as his dick is as stiff as his personality._

“Batman isn’t even real.”

_Dream wrecker._

The day dragged on, and after Wade had begged enough coins thrown in his direction off of a couple street corners, he wandered into Chinatown to get something to fill his stomach that wasn't cheap soup kitchen fare. After high quality Thai food he would rather go hungry than eat that right then. If the sparse creature comforts he could find were his only comfort anywhere, he'd focus on that.

That was what most of his life was lately, drifting from questions of when he’d next eat and where he’d next sleep. Maybe with this world's Peter he could—

No, he couldn't focus on that. He didn't even know when he'd be seeing him again.

**There is the distinct possibility that he could find someone he'd rather play with.**

_Nah, he was totally into you. Literally._

“Not the time!”

**It’s always the time to think about Peter and sex.**

“All right, fair enough.”

Once Wade had some sort of soup in him from a crowded restaurant where people gave him all sorts of nasty looks, he decided that he was going to find a costume shop and get a new mask. He didn't even care what kind of mask it was; he was tired of people staring at him. The little girl who took one look at his bare face and started crying to her mother in Mandarin was the last straw.

It just so happened that he managed to remember the location of a costume shop in the city, which was tucked into the back of a bookstore. After more walking, thankful that his healing factor was able to keep up with the blisters for once, he found it.

It was… not the same sort of bookstore that it had been before. Instead of regular books and kids books and some comic books, it was mostly an adult store now. But it still sold costumes in the back!

Unfortunately, he got distracted by picking up a dirty gay graphic novel—not manga, it was Western art—and spent too much time absorbed in that, to the point where the store was closing. Shit.

While the bored and stoned clerk was distracted, he said goodbye and pretended to head out the front. At the last second he ducked back in and snuck behind racks of books into the costume section, hoping maybe he could sleep in the changing room.

Even better, he found a big bargain bin with costumes and naughty lingerie and that would be pretty comfortable to curl up in.

**Is that a blow up doll?**

_Suits your new position as a sex object pretty well. Discounted, unwanted, dumped in a pile._

“Well, at least it's cozy and warm, and we can pretend it’s an intentional joke.” That's what he was good for, right? A bad joke and an object lesson in bad decision making.

He could find a mask in there later. Plenty of styles to choose from. Even a gimp mask would be sufficient; he could just cut the holes for eyes.

 _Yeah,_ that _will be less scary to the general public than your bare face._

Burrowing into the bin and covering himself completely with cheap costumes to avoid the watchful eye of the clerk, in case he actually bothered to even peek in back, Wade did his best to think of anything that would stop him from having nightmares. That dirty novel he'd just read would be good for that. It had been pretty hot, actually. A real steamy threesome.

A few minutes after he curled up with his head tucked into the softest thing he could find, Wade succumbed to exhaustion and managed—to his surprise—to fall asleep rather quickly.

 

\----------

 

Wade was home. He was in that cheap but cozy apartment he’d shared with Peter for two years, lying in bed. Like he’d never left. Like it had all been a bad dream. The bed smelled like Peter.

 _Peter_.

Wade sighed and rolled over to nuzzle his face into the bedsheets and absorb more of that smell.

“Hey, look who’s awake!” Peter stood by the bed with two mugs of coffee in his hands and a big stupid grin on his face. “You’re such a lazy ass, Wade.”

 _Peter_.

Peter smirked and held out Wade’s favorite mug for him. The smell of Wade’s favorite coffee wafted out of it. “What, got nothing to say? Come on, get up. Time to be a respectable member of society. New job, remember?”

Before Wade could say anything, Peter leaned down to kiss him, parting his lips to lick over Wade’s. Wade moaned and followed Peter’s urgings.

_Peter._

The coffee was gone. Wade and Peter were sitting together on the couch, a movie playing on the screen in front of them completely ignored. All that Wade was focused on was Peter’s mouth, and his hands sliding through Peter’s hair.

Peter bit Wade’s bottom lip, and Wade pulled back, pouting.

“You’re missing the movie!” Peter laughed.

“You bit me!” Wade put a hand over his mouth. “Oh, wait. Am I going to get spider powers now?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Peter’s eyes sparkled with humor and happiness.

_Peter._

“Wade, Wade, you’re here,” Peter said, making soft little whimpering noises in between kisses. Wade wrapped arms tight around him, and he kissed him back with all the passion and energy he could muster.

“I’m here, baby boy,” Wade breathed. He peppered Peter’s face with kisses, one hand slipping down to feel and caress Peter’s chest.

“Ah, yes, Wade!” Peter arched up into his touch, squirming his hips and grinding up against Wade. “Come on, show me a good time before you leave again.”

Wade moaned and pressed a kiss to Peter’s throat. “I’m not going anywhere. Not again.” He couldn’t stop touching him. Didn’t want to stop touching him. Feeling every part of him he could reach, every inch of perfect skin wrapped around powerful muscles. He would willingly walk into fire for one hour of just touching Peter.

“You don’t know that.” Peter stared at him. “You always leave.”

“I’ll _never_ leave you,” Wade said again, firmer.

Peter rubbed his erection up against Wade’s belly. In a quieter voice, he said, “Now. Before you leave.”

Wade was inside him. Inside Peter’s tight, hot body, Peter’s arms wrapped around his neck, thighs clutching to Wade’s hips. They swallowed each other’s moans as their bodies danced and rocked together. Wade had never felt so complete as he did then, with Peter in his arms and he in Peter’s.

Peter was sweating, staring at Wade with pupils so wide it swallowed up the pretty warm brown of his irises. “Wade… Wade, I’m proud of you.”

Oh. _Oh_. Oh, Wade didn’t know if he could handle hearing that. He opened his mouth to reply, when he felt fingers with an iron grip take hold of his hips and yank him back. He gasped and craned to look over his shoulder. He saw big black eyes in a red mask staring back at him. Spider-Man. Peter. The mercenary Peter.

Spider-Man yanked him backwards and pressed his mouth to Wade’s ear. “You think you can have him?” he growled. His fingers raked down Wade’s back, making him gasp and shudder. “Sure, you can have him. But I’ll have you.”

Yanking Wade’s arms behind his back, Spider-Man used the leverage to shove him down again on top of Peter. Peter smiled up at him, reaching to cup Wade’s face and stroke his cheek with his thumbs.

“Look how far you’ve come. I’m _so_ proud of you.”

Wade wanted to touch Peter, wanted to hold him again, but he couldn’t. Spider-Man’s grip on his wrists was too strong. He couldn’t even apologize, couldn’t reject Peter’s words. He’d done nothing that was worth being proud of. He didn’t deserve it. “Peter,” he choked out instead.

“ _I’m_ Peter,” Spider-Man said. He knocked Wade’s knees apart and entered him, filling him with sharp pleasure. Wade threw his head back and gasped. He didn’t have much time to respond _you’re not my Peter_ , before Spider-Man thrust hard into him, driving him forward. “He’s not Peter anymore. It’s just _me_.”

Wade’s cock pierced Peter’s entrance again, his movements dictated by Spider-Man’s thrusts. Spider-Man was setting the pace for all three of them.

“Peter… Peter,” Wade gasped, struggling to kiss him again. But Peter’s head was thrown back against the pillows, fingers curled in the sheets, hips bucking up against Wade’s. His hands still cupped Wade’s face, however, and he was gasping out nonsense words of pleasure.

The contrast rocked Wade to the core. Spider-Man behind him, hard and rough, and Peter moaning affections underneath him.

Wade couldn’t touch. He wanted to, so bad. He couldn’t touch either of them. On and on like this it seemed to go, until Peter was shuddering underneath him and he felt Spider-Man’s nails dig into his skin as his hot seed filled Wade’s ass.

Wade woke up in the bargain bin in back of an adult bookstore slash costume shop, a raging erection tight in his pants. He didn’t even want to touch it. His head was still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster and the lingering feelings of unease coursing through him. If he had thought that he missed Peter before, he’d been completely wrong. He missed Peter now more than ever.

He wiped a hand over his sweaty head and swallowed, blinking a few times as he looked around to get his bearings and try to finish waking up so the dream would go away faster.

**That dream was both hot as fuck and disturbing as shit.**

_I liked it._

**Yeah, you would.**

_Holy shit, is that a Spider-Man costume in here with us?_

It was true. Wade hadn’t even noticed the night before, but there was an old style Spider-Man costume in the bargain bin. The kind he had worn before, with the red and the blue and the thin webbies. He could see it better now that it was morning and there was light coming through the grime on the window.

_Do it. I dare you to wear the fucking Spider-Man mask._

Fingers shaking, despite how he attempted to control them, Wade pulled the costume towards him in his corner of the bin and ran his fingers over the design in the fabric. The big white eyes seemed to be staring at him, judging him. Accusing him.

Yanking the mask free of the plastic ties that held it to the rest of the costume, Wade brought it to his face and buried his nose in it. It was all wrong. The wrong material, the wrong texture, the wrong smell. It wasn’t Peter’s. It was just a stupid fake.

Just when he was about to rip it in half, he stopped, and looked at it again.

**Oh, that’s a good idea.**

Shoving his fist into the mask, he grabbed the fabric on the top seam and pulled it inside-out. This left the whole mask looking just like his own, and because it was sewn to go the other way around, it even had his trademark dimple in the top.

It wasn’t often that Wade had to break out of a place that wasn’t a jail or a mental institution, but he had to break out of that shop. He tried to do it with as little damage as possible, but in the end he had to smash a window to slip into an alley.

At least he could hide his face now. And the wetness on his cheeks.


End file.
